


The Great Pretender Isn't Just the Title of a Platters Song

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-23
Updated: 2011-11-23
Packaged: 2019-04-07 23:03:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14091642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: Originally posted for Glompfest. To get that job Arthur needs to be a family man, married. He isn't. That won't stop him vying for the position. But how to produce a significant other at a moment's notice?





	The Great Pretender Isn't Just the Title of a Platters Song

Arthur's hands close nervously around the handle of his briefcase. “I'm here to see Mr Donovan,” he says, sounding as smooth and professional as he knows how. Which is very, by the way.

The young secretary looks up from her computer filing and says, “And you are?”

Arthur bristles, but he spits a curt, “Arthur Pendragon.”

The secretary, blond hair gathered in a stylish bun, looks up at him, and then checks her organiser. She taps her finger at an entry and then eyes him again. “Pendragon, yes,” she says. “I see your name now.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Well?”

“You're here for the financial analyst position on the Acquisitions team.”

“Yes,” says Arthur even more tersely than before. “I came up to ask you whether Mr Donovan would see me now. I've been waiting for more than two hours and your chairs don't happen to rate high on the comfort scale.”

The secretary scrunches up her nose. The moue is pretty but Arthur's too miffed to care at the moment. “I see,” she says airily. “Mr Donovan is interviewing another candidate.”

“Another one?” asks Arthur. “I was told the position wasn't advertised through the usual channels.”

The secretary smiles prettily though probably in a fake way. “And yet you're here.”

“Yes, well...”

“So you're not the only one who got a confidential nudge.”

Arthur throws a hand up in the hair and retreats back to his uncomfortable seat. He scans Mr Donovan's office anteroom, staring at the potted Ficus for quite a long while. 

Finally, after loads of more pointed staring, the door opens and two men emerge. The first's more or less as tall as Arthur is but more stockily built; dark hair, closely cropped in a suitably business-like style crown his head. He's shaking the hand of a grey-haired man whose Armani suit and perfectly polished demeanour announce him to be the boss Arthur would have to be interviewed by.

The two men shake hands on the threshold to the inner office. “It was a pleasure, sir,” the stocky man says.

The man Arthur had assumed to be the boss says, “Likewise, Mr Valiant, likewise. We'll soon let you know.”

Mr Valiant smiles like a predator. “I'm sure I'll be pleased when I hear from you.”

“Yes, well,” Mr Donovan says. “The metaphorical cart and horse situation can be applied here, Mr Valiant, but we will inform you as soon as it is humanly possible.” Mr Donovan clears his throat. “I see there's someone else waiting for their interview.”

Arthur rises smoothly and waits as Valiant says his goodbyes. When Mr Valiant brushes past him, he also looks daggers at Arthur in a way that would have had Arthur snorting hadn't he had to walk up to Mr Donovan, who's summoning him. As if he can be intimidated so easily! Arthur's very good at his job if he says so himself.

“Ah, Mr Pendragon, please come, come. Follow me.” Arthur does follow Mr Donovan inside, taking a moment to study the man's office. A business person's office is pretty much their lair, their haunting ground. It says a lot about their tastes, hobbies, and sometimes about their outlook in life. 

For example Mr Donovan's office is very tidy: a glass fronted cabinet is used for filing while multi-coloured folders gathered together according to colour are used to order the printed stacks of data. Sleek surfaces are almost everywhere, allowing for a sense of neatness, order. Even the desk is glass topped. 

But Arthur's eyes zero in on on the photos displayed on the selfsame desk. There's a selection of four silver frames: the first photo is clearly a family ensemble picture; the other three represent the same kids from the group photo but taken singly. Must be Donovan's children, Arthur thinks.

“Your CV is certainly very interesting,” Mr Donovan begins the interview when Arthur is safely seated in front of him. “You have a BSc in Economics and Economic History from LSE and an MSC in Financial Economics from the Said Business School, Oxford.”

“Yes, sir,” answers Arthur promptly. “The experience was very formative. My last year included a traineeship in a large company in France called, Broceliande.”

Mr Donovan opens Arthur's file, which he'd had ready on his desk. “Yes, yes. I read here that you've since been working in strict collaboration with the CFO at Pendragon inc, which, I presume, is the company owned by your own father.”

“Yes it is, sir,” Arthur admits. “I--”

“You stand to inherit the lionshare of the company, do you not?” asks Donovan, raising an eyebrow.

Arthur can see where this might be going. Donovan might be asking himself why Arthur wants a job with him when he already has one that he'll have to return to in future. But he's come prepared for exactly that question. He's no newb. “While I'm the son of the owner, my place at Camelot was never assured. My ambition is to actually become CFO on my own steam in a brief time.” 

His hands are getting sweaty but he tries to project an aura of ineffable calm as he goes on, “That won't be possible at Camelot in the very near future and I seek to get the necessary qualifications on my own merit.”

“That's admirable,” comments Mr Donovan. “Though I fear you might not be very committed to this particular position since you'd still be heavily reliant on your Camelot future.”

“On the contrary, sir,” says Arthur. “I'm highly career oriented and do my best at my job, no matter the company logo. If I became your new analyst I'd give all my attention to Minerva Tech.”

Mr Donovan seems satisfied with the answer. “I also read here that you possess a large spectrum of experience and that you deem yourself capable of undertaking highly sensitive mandates even on very tight schedules.”

“Yes.”

“Frankly your CV is impressive, Arthur,” Mr Donovan says. “Your abilities range from detailed financial projections to scenario analyses to monitoring of expenses. That's all very well and good.” Mr Donovan voice grows dreamy. “But I can find all of this in any solid candidate.”

Arthur does his best not to let his disappointment show, a poker face is essential in job interviews.

“See, if I'd advertised this position I'd have got submerged by applications.”

Arthur says, “I can see that, sir.”

“So you can also understand that I'm looking for something a little different.”

Arthur leans over a little and asks, “And might I ask what that would be?”

“Certainly,” answers Mr Donovan. “Certainly. I'm looking for something that I don't see on your CV. No, no, let me, Arthur. I can call you that, right? My eldest son's the same age as you. What I'm looking for is a man capable of commitment. A family man. Someone who's as devoted in his life to his family.” Here Donovan throws a look at the array of family portraits on his desk, “as he's going to be to our company. Young men are volatile, care only about the status and the side benefits. I feel a family man is going to have an understanding of the type of commitment needed to be part of a close knit group such as the one staffing our company.”

Thinking of his life as a confirmed bachelor, Arthur croaks an, “I see,” he's by no means proud of.

“Which is why I'm asking you the following question,” says Donovan in a rather fatherly tone of voice. “Are you married?”

The first thing Arthur thinks after that question is: shit. He's actually using a lot of expletives in his head, so by the time he has to answer, it's logical that he should be floundering, especially considering the fact that there's no way he can embellish the fact that he is, to all intents and purposes, as free as a bird, single, as they go, completely unfettered. “I am,” he unaccountably blurts out, already asking himself why, oh why, he's doing such a thing.

“Perfect,” says Donovan. “I won't hide the fact that I feared you wouldn't being since you didn't think to include your marital status info on your CV.” 

Donovan pours himself a glass of water from a carafe he has at his side and asks Arthur if he wants some himself. Arthur shakes his head and then Donovan proceeds. “I was counting on choosing who our new analyst would be after I'd seen them interact in a non corporate environment. I'll be hosting a party to which all the best candidates for the position are going to be invited. I'll be pleased to meet your significant other at this event.” 

Then Donovan winks because he's practically told Arthur he's one of the best already.

Seeing the job in his hands, Arthur doesn't know how to retrace his steps and admit that he might have told a piece of untruth because he's conditioned to succeed. As it is, he has to find someone who can pose as his partner in a very short space of time. Or he's epically screwed.

“I'll be delighted sir,” he says.

**** 

Arthur grabs two bottles of beer by their necks and slams the door of the fridge shut with his hip. He retreats to the living room and plops down right next to Leon, before handing him one of the bottles. He rests his feet on the coffee table and reaches for the bottle opener. Cap unscrewed, Arthur takes a large sip and says, “I'm done for, aren't I?”

“What I don't actually get,” says Leon warily, “is how you got into this scrape. I've never heard you lie before.”

Arthur rests his head against the sofa's backrest and stares at the ceiling. “I know,” he groans. “It's just that... I need this job. I need it to prove to father that I can actually hold a position like that and that I got it without any help.”

Leon drinks some of his own beer, then says, “Arthur, you know why you got your present job.”

Arthur drowns his sorrows in more beer. “How can I be sure?”

“Well,” says Leon. “Lying about your marital status wasn't the way to ensure you'd get this other position, I guess.”

Arthur passes a hand over his forehead and says, “I'm perfectly aware, Leon, thank you.”

“Just because you have issues with your father...”

Arthur turns his head to the side and glares at his friend. “Thank you for the psychoanalysis session. Now I'm sure all my problems are going to magically vanish.”

“Now, now,” says Leon. “No sarcasm.”

Arthur muses out loud, “I suppose I ought to come clean. Confess.”

“Then it's bye-bye job,” Leon informs him as though he finds Arthur's predicament rather funny. He puts the beer on the table next to Arthur's feet and then leans forward. “If you're caught in a lie before beginning it's a pretty safe bet to say you won't be hired at all. They'll just assume you'll lie again. It's what I do when I check CVs any way. One lie and they're out. Unless it's some form of definitely minor embellishment, which we're all guilty of. But that's not the case here.”

Sighing, Arthur recognises the truth in that. “So I've cocked this up and there's no coming back from this. It's just that...”

“Just that what?”

“It's just that I was sure I was the most qualified person on the market for this job,” Arthur says, pinching the bridge of his nose. His other hand's holding laxly onto the bottle. He's pretty sure he's looking like the perfect image of despair.

“Sad thing is I think you are too.”

Arthur snorts, “How consoling.”

Leon hums a little. It's this little noise he makes when he thinks he has a plan. “I believe this can be salvaged.”

Arthur doesn't appreciate the false hope thing. “How could it possibly be salvaged?” he asks pointedly. “I should be married for it to even remotely work and of course I'm not...”

“Nobody says you have to be married or marry,” says Leon. That tone makes Arthur more than a little nervous. He can envision ulcers in his future if he pays too much attention to it.

“What are you going on about?”

“Well, you just need to convince good old Donovan that you're married.”

“I'm not going to pretend to be wholly straight.”

Leon sounds as if he's at the end of his tether when he says, “Then don't. I was just suggesting that if you still want the job so much you should perhaps introduce Donovan to your significant other.”

Put upon, Arthur says, “I have no significant other.” He eases the bottle on the floor. “None. And it's not as if significant others can be conjured out of thin air. Geraint is off to greener pastures and Vivian, well first she says she loves me, then she's confused, and then tells me she doesn't want to see me again. I doubt she'd get back with me for the duration of this Donovan charade.”

Leon grimaces. “Who says it's got to be real? I mean, obviously you can't go phone your exes in the hopes they'll back-pedal and be with you.”

Arthur privately agrees. That's a humiliation he'll never subject himself to. “No, I suppose I'll have to own up to the truth.”

“Not necessarily,” Leon says. “Look, this is something Gwaine's done in the past. So take that under advisement. But he once wrote up an ad for the Evening Standard's Classifieds section – no, don't groan now – you know, their guy seeks guy,/guy seeks girl column. I'm thinking you could write a classified of your own saying you're seeking someone to impersonate your boyfriend. I'm sure plenty will crop up. Give a fake name and your off-work mobile number and you're primed.”

Arthur thinks about this for the whole of thirty seconds before bursting forth with a, “What! You think I can't find someone by myself?”

“A date? Leon asks. “Yes, sure. Someone willing to say they're your dear hubby or wife? Not so much. You'll probably need to pay them.”

“You're joking, right?” Arthur squeaks. “Like an escort?”

“Not unless you want side benefits, Arthur,” Leon quips. “But that's entirely up to you, of course.”

The thought _I'm doomed_ flits across Arthur's brain. He dislikes Leon's plan on principle. It involves lying, it involves the necessity of finding someone to pose as his legal partner, thus getting to know a person whose morals are shady if they're willing to act out the role, and Arthur's feelings are revolting already. “Can't you do it?”

“What?” Leon screeches. “No, mate, no. I'm a married man. Forridel'd hang me.”

“Then I should?”

“Give it a try?” Leon suggests. “See what kind of people turn up. If someone who looks normal and nice does, then all you have to do is pass them some 300 quid for a night spent playing couples.”

“You think that'd work?” Arthur asks. “Because it doesn't sound like it would.”

Leon fishes his mobile out of his pocket and makes as if to hand it to Arthur. “You can always call Donovan and tell him you're a fibbing bastard.”

Then Arthur's house phone rings for real and Arthur realises it's father on the other end of the line. At the words, “How did your interview go?” Arthur freezes. “As I told you, Arthur, your place is with us...” father continues and Arthur goes and says, “Actually the interview went just fine.”

Father sounds gobsmacked as if he can't trust Arthur not to bollocks up an interview for a job similar to the one he's been doing more than competently for the past four years.

When the phone call's over, Arthur stands up, almost knocking down the bottle at his feet, and goes looking for his laptop. Time to compose an ad.

****

The search for the perfect candidate to play his husband of a night doesn't go smoothly. Arthur had jotted down a series of characteristics the perfect person must possess to qualify for the role as soon as Leon had left the other day. The list he has now is pretty comprehensive: they must be classy, polite, interesting, have some kind of education – including the ability to construct proper sentences while also displaying an ability to canvass books and newspaper articles – and be decent looking to boot. 

The ability to produce witty repartee at a moment's notice Arthur counts as a plus. Since a choice of life partner is often indicative of your own tastes, Arthur doesn't want to get just anybody for the job. It's a question of pride. He wants his boss to think: “Pendragon has fine taste.”

He devotes his entire Saturday and Sunday afternoon to choosing the right candidate because apparently there have been many answers to his ad. 

The first interview goes badly from the moment the boy walks in. And there's the rub; the interviewee is barely past his teens, he's dressed in oversized, low hanging jeans that let his briefs show and sporting a look that is too MTV inspired. 

“Hiya,” he says. “I'm Ben.” 

Fact his he's got an i-pod ear-plug in his ears and Arthur can spot the song that's playing. He mentally crosses Ben off the list of 'doable' – not like that! – candidates when he finds the song's Tik Tok. No way will he allow himself to hang out, even for a night, with such a specimen of humanity: too young, too hip, too... God is that acne? Way too young. 

Before the babe in arms can even sit down, Arthur tells him, “I'm sorry, you're not the kind of person I was looking for.”

“Look, mate,” says Ben, gesticulating like a rapper he must have seen in a music video, “I really need the money.”

“I understand,” Arthur replies, stubbornly attempting not too crack up. God, if Gwaine could see this, he'd never hear the end of it. “I was looking for a companion for a night; but I'm afraid you fall within the too young side of the spectrum.”

“When's your thing?” Ben asks. “'Cos I could grow a bit of a goatee. And if it's sex you're looking for, mate, I'm so broke it's no problem.”

“No,” says Arthur, hurrying to explain that he isn't seeking a prostitute. “No, no. That's not what -- Look, Ben,” he says, “you're obviously a very... entertaining person to be around. But I need someone to impress my boss and he's an old man. I simply don't think you would strike the right chord with him.”

The answer to that is a rather unexpected, “Fuck you, old geezer.”

Thankfully Ben departs quickly after that. 

The second candidate is a girl named Sophia. When Arthur sees her, he almost thinks he can pretend to be wholly straight for a night since the girl is classy. She turns up dressed in a pencil skirt and frilly blouse combo that doesn't showcase too much flesh while highlighting her shapely physique. Her hair had been curled and frames her face prettily. This is someone Arthur's sure Donovan will like. Any corporate fifty-something would like someone like Sophia.

“Please, sit down,” says Arthur pointing at the armchair he'd dragged in front of the sofa for interview purposes. 

Sophia does, elegantly crossing her legs.

That's a high score already. 

“What would I have to do?” she asks, her voice calm and modulated.

“I'm seeking someone to...” lie my way into making my prospective boss believe I'm married to you. “...attend a function with me. Someone who, let's say, wouldn't blink at being introduced as my loyally wedded wife.”

“I see,” says Sophia speculatively. “No sex, right? Because I'm not that kind of girl.”

“No, no sex,” Arthur hastens to say. “You just need to be dress up a bit and be friendly to my future boss while saying we tied the knot.” Arthur is actually about to give her an advance on the money when Sophia frowns a little and asks, “Is your boss very rich? I feel I should marry a very rich man and this party seems like the right platform for me to meet one.”

Arthur almost loses all hope. “Thank you,” he, however, manages to say. “I'll let you know, should I choose you.”

Rising and extending a hand, Sophia says, “I hope you'll settle for me. This will be the perfect opportunity for me. I'll be married in a few months if this pans out.”

Arthur shakes her hand, which is very soft, and leads her to the door. Leon will hear of this one, he thinks. “Good-bye,” he says instead.

The next candidate is Percival and when Arthur's eyes alight on him Arthur can't help but think: he's kind of hot. A vision of athletic, sweaty, slightly rough sex flashes before his mind's eye before he manages to keep it in check.   
Unfortunately once Arthur starts asking questions about the man's hobbies and tastes in books and music, Arthur is forced to admit Percival isn't exactly among the most refined or well-read people in the whole wide world. Quite the opposite in fact.

“So what do you do during the weekends?”

“I either play Rugby or play outdoor combat games.”

That explains the muscle mass. “Brilliant I play footie myself most Sundays.”

“Yeah, cool,” says Percival. “though it's a bit of a light game. My cousin, Lilly, plays football. She's very much into it. Won an inter county trophy.”

Being compared to a young girl doesn't fill Arthur with joy, but he manages, a very polite, “That's brilliant.”

“Yeah...”

“What about other hobbies?” Arthur probes him. “I don't know... Reading? Politics?”

“Uh nah,” says Percival. “I haven't touched a book since my GSCEs, and I hate politics. Number one rule in my house. Never buy newspapers.”

Arthur knows for a fact that Donovan is very involved with politics, loves discussing his favourite topic and is friends with a number of beebs journalists. Percival's hatred of the press is a big point against him. “Not even on the net?” Arthur asks.

“Don't know how to use a PC, mate. A flatmate of mine had one, but then he moved out. I'm sure there's some interesting stuff on there. Another friend downloads songs for me so it's fine.”

“I see,” says Arthur. “And what do you do for a living?”

“Currently unemployed,” says Percival. “But maybe I'll get hired at the gym next to my flat. I spend most of my time there anyway. “ Out of the blue Percival changes tack. “I could train you. You'd get solid abs in a fee weeks.”

“I have solid abs!” Arthur splutters. “Perfectly toned abs.”

Percival makes a disbelieving face. “Okay, out!” says Arthur. When he closes the door on Percival's nose it feels ever so much better. “I'm fit!” he announces to the now empty room. Anyway he ends the evening by doing sit ups and a bit of tread-milling.

The Sunday comes and it's even more hopeless than the day before and what's worse Arthur's already received a mail announcing he'll be welcomed at the Party hosted at the Dorchester's Promenade Bar, privately booked for the event by Minerva Tech, on the 25th. He's expected to have a plus one, of course.

The new volley of candidates is made up by a young, silent man whose name's Mordred and who almost never speaks a word. Arthur has to wrest answers from him and all he gets in return are venomous glares. If looks could kill, Arthur'd be six feet under. 

The next candidate after Mordred, is a girl from the States called Susy, who just wants the money, now, “I'm broke. I followed my bf here and I'm sleeping in a hostel. I need the money, so if you just could give me my payment in advance. And double it?

Arthur's about to shout 'Next!', though he knows there's no-one in the wings. After Susy, it's a nymphomaniac's turn – how Arthur is actually aware of that one is a long story involving his dick being groped, the sentence, why don't we do it on the floor, all bare and the following proposal, “Maybe I could call this friend of mine for a threesome.” 

And the one after that eyes Arthur's TV, mobile and state of the art loudspeakers as if he knows how to sell them on the black market. Arthur's so creeped out by this one that he doesn't open the door to the next candidate and only does open three hours later to be met with by a mousy man he can't possibly introduce as his husband in a million years. Arthur may be very shallow, but mid-forties, short and balding isn't what he's looking for. Pretend or no.

He's on the phone with Leon, lamenting the situation, “No, mate, no. I'm finished,” when the doorbell rings one last time. It's Sunday evening, he's got work all week and the party is this Friday. This all means he's got to see this candidate or settle for either Percival or Sophia.

He flings the door open with all the vehemence he's got and barks into the phone, “Call you later.” And then a grouchy, “Yes?” comes out of his mouth, but he stops at that as he takes in this latest guy. He's a little taller than Arthur himself or at least he would be weren't he slouching; he's tremendously thin but his features are quite something. He's shabbily dressed but Arthur thinks that with a dress-shirt and shoes that weren't scruffy, he would look fine. 

“Wow, if you're already so angry now, I'd better be gone.”

Arthur makes a face at that. “Come on, don't be an idiot now. I was on the phone.”

“And prickly and calling me names,” the candidate says. “Look, Bob,” he adds and when Arthur fails to respond to the fake name he used for the ad, he adds,”Or whatever name you're called. It's clear you don't want to do this and I may need the 300 quid but, yeah, bad idea.”

So last chance then. “Look,” Arthur says, waving the guy inside. “I'm in a spot of bother and I acknowledge you might be of help.” If you don't prove too weird, he inserts mentally.

The candidate finally steps inside and follows Arthur into the living room. “I don't know what your problem is,” he tells Arthur, “but you could decidedly do with a little less prattishness and a lot more approachability. You're the one with the ad in the---”

“Oh, put a sock in it,” says Arthur. 

The candidate faces about, directing his steps towards the door. 

“Oh, come on, stop it,” Arthur says. “Don't be melodramatic! I'll pay you £ 300 to spend an evening at a asocial event where'll you'll be treated to an excellent buffet. I think you can put up with my manners for that.”

The candidate stops and turns. “Your horrible, horrible manners,” he comments, but then grins as though he finds the whole exchange hilarious. “I'm Merlin,” he says. “And what sort of trouble are you in exactly?”

“I need my prospective boss to believe I'm married or he won't hire me,” Arthur confesses. “And my real name's Arthur.”

Merlin goggles. “Really? Can he do that? What about labour laws?”

“He's free to hire whomever he pleases and he didn't even advertise the position through the usual channels, so yeah, he can do what he wants provided there's no blatant breach of the law.”

“Oh,” says Merlin. “So I have to...what?”

“Prove to me you can enchant a fifty-something corporate tycoon,” Arthur says without thinking.

Merlin puts his hands in his pockets and airily says, “I can charm everybody. I can be as sweet as you like.”

The fact is that although Arthur wants to snort, he can quite see that Merlin isn't lying. He's kind of endearingly cute, in a certain way. He reminds Arthur of very young things without actually being all that young. his pointy elbows and gangly gait are probably the reason why he exudes that air; they're reminiscent of schoolboys from another generation. He also has a slightly manic but very open, very friendly grin you sort of can't help but respond to in some way. That's an enormous plus. If Donovan wasn't made of stone, which he isn't given his family man tendencies, then he'd probably think Merlin's attitude and manners more than captivating. Merlin might possess some annoying traits but Arthur is sure he could camouflage them if paid to do so. “Please, take a seat,” says Arthur.

“Yeah, you're pretty bad at hosting,” says Merlin, making himself comfy. Unfortunately he doesn't take the armchair Arthur had selected to interview candidates in, but he parks himself on Arthur's commodious sofa. 

Leaving Arthur out of his advantage point. 

Having to choose between standing and occupying the spotlight armchair, Arthur opts for standing. A bit tired because of the repeated failures he'd gone through while interviewing his possible fake partners, Arthur is a little bit less than diplomatic when he asks, “Have you ever undergone any kind of schooling? Do you have any hobbies that happen to involve literacy or knowledge of politics?”

Merlin scoffs. “Seriously, you're going to be like that? Because, yeah, I want the £300 but you're an unmitigated world champion when it comes to being a twat.”

“Look,” says Arthur, “You don't know what kind of people I've reviewed today. You don't know about the one who looked at my stuff as if he knew a person with a very good fence reputation. You don't know about the gal who groped me. And finally you don't know anything about me!”

Merlin shrugs. “True. But I know you're doing something sneaky you're not proud of, which is why you're so nervy.”

“Now you'll tell me you're a psychology student or something,” says Arthur.

Merlin shakes his head. “No, but you're not as difficult to read as you might think. Anyway I'll answer your questions but know they're rude. “

“Noted.”

“I'm studying for my PGCE. Mean to be a teacher. So yeah, I want to be involved in education. My hobbies do include reading and going to the odd concert. I'm a holiday bird-watcher and collect bouncy balls.”

“Bouncy balls?” Arthur has to laugh at that one. “You're pulling my leg!”

“If I was using sexual innuendo I'd say so.”

“Okay, favourite film?” Arthur shoots forth to cover the fact he's blushing.

Merlin seems to think about it. “I like loads. However if you want me to pick I'd say Leon.”

“Pervy: the killer and the 12 year old.”

“What will you have...” said Merlin, “brilliant cast.”

“Favourite book?”

Merlin considers this question as well. “These are tough questions! How am I going to pick and choose!” He says that quite enthusiastically with a fire in his eyes that tells Arthur he isn't posing as far as the enjoying reading thin is concerned. “Okay, okay,” he says, as though Arthur hadn't pressed him for an answer. “I'd say, If I had to pick one as in that desert island kind of game...”

“What desert island kind of game?” asks Arthur.

Merlin rolls his eyes. “You know the one where you can take only one of anything with you in case you're stranded on a desert island.”

“Now,” tuts Arthur. “That's not very likely, is it?”

Merlin shifts on his sofa, evidently looking for a more comfortable position. “That's why it's a game and not a serious life dilemma,” he says. 

Arthur has this feeling he is being gently mocked but he can't call Merlin on it without sounding paranoid. “Yes, well,” Arthur says. “No games with Mr Donovan.”

Merlin leans forward. “Does that mean you're picking me?”

“You sound literate,” Arthur concedes, shrugging, to show that he isn't too enthused about Merlin but he can do in absentia of better candidate material. “But just so you know it. You're turning up on the 25th, that is to say Friday, at my place first so I can okay you. Dress code is smart casual though I'd prefer it if you wore a tie so as not to look like you're fifteen.”

“I get drinks in pubs all right,” says Merlin. “No fancy dress code.”

“I bet,” says Arthur, still busy enumerating the rules. “You're going to play the part of my husband. Civil partner. You're going to be non-confrontational and loving.”

Merlin feels the need to point out, “You know I'm not a call boy, do you?”

Arthur is aware of sounding caustic when he says, “As if I'd do you.”

“So you won't be pawing me?”

Arthur grunts. “No, I won't be pawing you, as you define it. But still I may be wrapping a hand around your waist or kiss your cheek.”

“I'm okay with that,” says Merlin.

“Look,” says Arthur, “You're just going to have to pretend to be my partner for a few hours, okay. Nothing ground-breaking. And be nice to the man I want to call my boss. Very nice to him.”

Merlin quirks an eyebrow and says, “I hope not too nice.”

“God, get your mind out of the gutter!”

“Just establishing my own ground rules.”

“Well, okay. I get that. I just meant some general...”

“Arse-kissing?” Merlin asks. “Obviously non literal...”

“Idiot.”

“You're not faring too well yourself.”

“Ah ah.”

“I suppose I should know a few things about you too,” Merlin says then. “Things a husband would know.”

Arthur flushes and he supposes it's pretty noticeable too.

“Now who's got their mind in the gutter?” Merlin says.

“Why would you like to know?”

“To pass off as someone who knows you.”

“Mr Donovan doesn't know me that well. He'd never spot any inconsistency.”

Merlin claps a hand on his own thigh. “Bummer, they always do it in American films. You know with those green card weddings. There was this oldish one with Gerard Depardieu, where he needs to...”

“You're a film buff, aren't you?” Arthur asks a little condescendignly. It's Merlin's turn to redden all over. He's so embarrassed he starts shifting on the sofa, clearly not knowing where to put his hands. They're pretty hands, bony, large, tapered fingers.

Arthur decides to give him a moment's grace. “I'll mail you something if you leave me your contact details.”

“So I'm hired?”

“Yes,” says Arthur, reluctantly, fearing he might regret this. “Yes, you're going to be my husband for a night.”

**

Merlin turns up at his flat twenty minutes late. However, Arthur had been paranoid about the punctuality factor so he'd lied to Merlin when mailing him the date's coordinates. He'd done this so that Merlin would be there more than forty minutes before they would actually need to go. Which is all very fortunate since Merlin is wearing washed out jeans and a yellow long-sleeved shirt that says “Save the Planet.”

“Tell me you have a change!” says Arthur, despairing of his having chosen Merlin to play the part of his partner.. He should have gone fore Percival and told him to shut up the whole time. Silent he would have been perfect.

A little out of breath, Merlin leans against the closed door and lifts a plastic bag. “Yes,” he says. “But my flatmate kept pestering me. Every time I changed into something he had a biting comment on his lips like, 'That's good if you're auditioning for a scarecrow role in a horror film.' Or, 'Oh you look like granddad Mike in his burial suit'. So, you see. I bagged everything and decided to let you pick. It's your thing after all.”

Before Arthur can point Merlin towards the bathroom so he can change, Merlin has started shedding his clothes, displaying a very bare, very lean, very pale torso that comes a whole lot as a surprise to Arthur. 

Arthur let his eyes rove over Merlin's form for a few seconds, grudgingly admitting he finds it appealing, before trailing him and telling him in as didactic a voice as he can manage, “Show me what you have in there and I'll see.” 

By the time Merlin has passed the bathroom's door he's shoeless and trouser-less. He also turns around abruptly and presses his bag full of clothes against Arthur chest. “Choose,” he says peremptorily. 

Dazed, trying not to take in more half-nude Merlin than he has to, Arthur sifts through the contents of the bag. Inside it there's a pair of nice charcoal trousers that would be perfect if they weren't too crumpled for use, a pair of casual jeans that are way too everyday for the party, a choice of three shirts, a canary yellow button down that wouldn't look too good with Merlin's rather pallid complexion, a white one that isn't anything to write home about, but can do in a pinch and a selection of two ties: a slim one that would cry blues brothers at whoever's looking and a second one that is completely horrid. 

“Don't look at me like that. It belongs to Uncle Gaius.”

“Poor Uncle Gaius,” says Arthur. Then since they might be late despite Arthur's cunning plan, Arthur says, “Come on, I'll iron your trousers while put on the white shirt. I'll act as though I haven't seen the dachshunds on your socks.”

“You can iron?” Merlin gasps.

“Yes,” says Arthur, miffed. “I do possess that miraculous ability.”

“That's great,” says Merlin, without picking up on the sarcasm.

Arthur grabs the trousers and stomps off, looking for the ironing board the cleaning lady had put away the other day. In five minutes flat he's managed to turn the trousers inside-out and lay them on the ironing board. 

Two minutes later he's sprayed mist from a spray bottle Mrs Hudson uses for this exact purpose – better coaxing fabric into complying– and passed the iron over all badly creased areas – which are plentiful because apparently Merlin doesn't know how to fold clothes – folded the top leg back and ironed the bottom leg. 

Top part done, he pronounces himself satisfied and stalks back to Merlin, who's in still in the bathroom, wearing the white shirt Arthur had selected, cuffs undone, boxers, and the dachshund socks. Arthur can't help but emitting a kind of half-suppressed laugh. 

Startled, Merlin turns around and grabs his trousers from Arthur. “Don't make fun of me.”

“No, you're right, making fun of the domestically challenged would be evil and cruel.”

“I can do plenty at home.”

“I'm sure.”

Merlin steps into one of the trouser legs. “I'm brilliant at window cleaning. I take out the rubbish once a week.”

Arthur's lips twitch despite his valiant attempts to curb them to his will. “Yes, and I'm sure you even occasionally remember to do the laundry.”

“Yes,” says Merlin emphatically, doing the zip up. Arthur tries to focus on Merlin's chin instead of his pelvic area and when he does he realises Merlin's missing something. A tie. “I'll get you one of my ties. Those two you have won't do.”

Merlin makes a displeased noise. “What? You Valentino now?”

“No,” says Arthur, making his way to his bedroom and making a beeline for his walk-in wardrobe. “I have eyes to see.”

Arthur's busy choosing a tie that will compliment Merlin when Merlin pops up and says, “Wow, you certainly buy a lot of clothes.” Clothed, trousers looking much crisper than they had in the bag, Merlin looks quite snappy and smart. Arthur swallows against the sudden dryness in his throat.

“I'm paid handsomely.”

“And you want more,” Merlin observes. “Otherwise you wouldn't be angling for another job.”

“Actually,” Arthur corrects Merlin, finally choosing a blue tie that would work on Merlin, “I'm going to be paid less.”

Merlin's brow furrows in thought. He leans against a portion of uncluttered wall and says, “Then why would you go for it? Would it be a technical promotion?”

“No,” says Arthur curtly, not wanting Merlin to poke his nose into this. “And it's none of your business,” he continues, saying what he feels.

Merlin's face falls and he draws in on himself. “Fine. Sorry. Sorry. Meant to be friendly but if you want to be all business it's all right be me.”

Arthur would argue some more but that's when he notices that despite his little tweaks to the meeting time, they're actually going to be late. He knots Merlin's tie for him because Merlin's' got clumsy fingers, tugs him by the arm and propels him out of the wardrobe, into the bedroom, out of it and into the hall, where he has him wear his shoes and coat while Arthur retrieves his keys. This done he whisks him out. 

“Calm down. Come on!” says Merlin, as Arthur takes the stairs down two at a time because he knows the lift's an old and rusty thing that always takes too long to come up and go down when summoned.

Arthur only breathes out when he manages to get that traffic-laden circle of hell that is Oxford Street in sight. 

When a quarter of an hour later he parks before the Dorchester, he doesn't get out of the car despite the hotels chauffeur's hovering presence just outside his car door. 

Instead he takes a minute to go over some basic ground rules with Merlin. They'd discussed much of this via mail, but Arthur wants to go over it again because his whole future depends on Merlin's behaviour tonight. And that alone is more than terrifying.

“So,” says Arthur, turning in his seat, fingers drumming over the wheel. “When were we civil partnershipped?” 

Merlin hesitates and asks, “aren't we late? We almost burnt a red light to be here and now you're playing mastermind.”

“Just answer, please, Merlin.”

“Six months ago. No member of your family was there because it was a secret and meant to be intimate. My mum was.” 

“Right,” says Arthur, fingers still beating a relentless rhythm on the steering wheel. “Have you learnt my CV by heart as I asked you to?”

This time the question is met with a giggle. “I'm to play your devoted husband not your job promoter,” says Merlin.

“Wrong, I'm paying you to nail this act and if it takes feeding Donovan what he wants to hear...”

“Shouldn't your CV speak for itself?” Merlin asks, tongue in cheek.

Arthur barks an angry, “It does,” opening the car door. He barely avoids hitting the chauffeur's in the stomach with it. 

They make it to the bar by way of riding a too full lift and when they finally find they venue Merlin whispers in his ear, “Posh. Maybe I should have asked for more than 300.”

“Shut up, Merlin,” Arthur says through his teeth, favouring his invitation to the person who's evidently been entrusted with checking that nobody gate-crashes the party. 

The party itself, thanks to their lateness, is already in full swing.

Women in beautiful dresses are hanging around the bar where the bartenders are preparing multi-coloured cocktails in flashy ways that remind Arthur of Tom Cruise films he shouldn't have watched if he'd intended to preserve his sanity. 

The men are all conservatively dressed, having business written all over them. But for the random bow-ties flitting here and there this could be a business meeting. 

In a corner two men are busy eating canapés and discussing the stock market. 

A woman, who must be a corporate lawyer going by the range of her conversation, is discussing a fine point of international jurisprudence with a man who's actually eyeing her rack. 

Another woman is texting away on her Blackberry.

As for the rest the lights are soft, the view over the city is splendid, and the atmosphere one of refined !.

When Arthur sees a serious but very pretty blond woman marching towards him, he wraps his arm loosely around Merlin's waist and takes a step forward, thus inducing Merlin to do the same if he doesn't want to look as though he really doesn't want to be there. (Which he probably doesn't, but tough, Arthur's paid him to be an active participant.)

The woman, all flowing locks of blond hair and a stare that could have made Homeric heroes cower, introduces herself as Morgause, Mr Donovan's second in command, as though she was on a battleship and not scaling the corporate ladder. 

“Arthur Pendragon. And this is my civil partner, Merlin.”

Morgause flashes them a very tight smile that is more of a stretching of pursed lips than anything else. “Please follow me, “ she says. “Mr Donovan wanted to make sure he could get at least a few minutes with you before he's got to attend to the other guests.”

Morgause stalks away and Arthur is ready to follow on her heels when he finds that Merlin is more or less rooted to the spot. “What?”

“That woman scares me.”

“Don't be an idiot. There's nothing she can do to you.”

“I disagree,” says Merlin, pulling faces that would be comic if Arthur were of a mind to look at the bright side. But he isn't since Morgause has turned and in now levelling a reproaching stare replete with raised eyebrow at them. She looks as though she could eat them for breakfast if she was of a mind, Arthur has to concede, but Merlin is being impossible. “Merlin,” Arthur therefore hisses, “don't make a scene.”

“She doesn't like me,” is all Merlin says as Arthur attempts to grab him by the elbow. 

Unfortunately Merlin is digging his feet in and he isn't as light as he might at first look. The whole boils down to this: they're drawing attention to themselves. “If they throw us out, I swear I'll wring your neck first and then sue you for breach of contract.”

“I never signed anything,” says Merlin far too loudly.

Arthur yanks Merlin forward and Merlin comes but only because he hadn't been expecting the last tug. “You're making it look like I habitually abuse you.”

Merlin frowns and then his eyes widen and he goes limp. “Sorry. It's just that I'm sure she doesn't mean any of us well.”

“Maybe,” Arthur says, leading Merlin towards the spot where Morgause is waiting for them. “But she isn't the one entrusted with hiring me and she isn't even remotely connected to you so you can draw in a breath and relax.”

“What?” says Merlin, now walking as speedily as Arthur. “You're into that tantra stuff like Sting?”

Arthur chuckles and since he's playing a role tonight he leans in and murmurs, “I can't make love for seven hours on end, I'm afraid, but I swear I have stamina.”

By the time they've gained the same spot as Morgause, Merlin has gone pepper-red. However Arthur has no time to repent having uttered that line because Mr Donovan appears. 

“Arthur!” he says. “And your spouse, I presume.. I guess he wasn't happy to be dragged here after all.”

Merlin's face morphs completely when he realises that Donovan had observed his earlier behaviour. It's as though he's been kicked, which makes Arthur want to forgive him on the spot. More so because Merlin hasn't been trained to deal with corporate hypocrisy. Morgause had welcomed them in a shark like fashion and Arthur reckons he would have been taken aback too hadn't he long been educated in the art of smiling at people he doesn't find completely pleasant. 

While Arthur's been so busy making these observations to himself, Merlin has sidled closer. He now hooks an arm around Arthur's waist, firm, intimate. Inching closer still, he tilts his head and presses his lips to Arthur's, soft, plant, semi-parted. This, Arthur's positive, has never been part of the script they'd agreed upon and while Arthur should be taken aback by this development, completely befuddled, he finds that, in a way, he isn't at all. 

Merlin's doing this to prove he can act the part; it's a save. 

Arthur should also feel strange at having to half-snog a person he hadn't known a few days ago, a stranger, but instead a thrill chases down his back and he's moved by the urge to do something more, maintain more than a fleeting contact, trap those lips between his and... 

Right, Donovan, right. Besides, this is all fake.

When Merlin draws back, his eyes are twinkling merrily as if he knows he's wrought some kind of impish mischief. Yet he sounds almost angelic when he says to Donovan, “I'm sorry. I was a bit embarrassed. When we were just together I usually didn't tag along for his business parties. Th is my first.”

Donovan's eyes are a little shiny. Like a proud father he says, “I see how that can be. Tying the knot changes things.”

Merlin nods vigorously though he can't know much more than Arthur about the institution. “Yes,” he says. “Just being with Arthur was easier perhaps but I would never go back. We,” he adds, waxing a rad lyrical, “were meant to be. A bit like destiny. Weren't we, Arthur?” 

There's an unholy teasing light in Merlin's eyes as he plays his part. Arthur's never been in a real relationship that would make this kind of declaration natural, so he's completely thrown as to how to react to this imitation thereof. 

Merlin, for his part, is having heaps of fun yanking Arthur's chain.

Donovan, though. takes them at face value, not suspecting that Merlin's overacting a little just to tease Arthur, who, Arthur himself must admit, had been a bit anal about Merlin's sinking his teeth into the role before.

“So how long have you been married; you'll allow me the use of the word though not technically correct?”

Dutifully, Merlin answers, “Six months but we were together a little longer before that.”

“I'm sure you had a long courtship. You give off that vibe and do remind me of me and my wife a few decades ago.”

Wanting to change the subject because the lying makes him uncomfortable, Arthur\asks Donovan whether his wife is there tonight. 

“I'm afraid not. She's the director of a musicians' committee. She was busy tonight. I'm sure that if I hire you there'll be plenty of opportunity for you to get to know Christina. I've always held that a firm is a little like an enlarged family.”

Donovan is being loud on the topic, so much so that he turns a few heads, among whom Arthur recognises Valiant's. 

When Valiant sees that Arthur's got Donovan's attention, he shoulders his way through the myriad of guests till he has joined them. 

“Mr Donovan,” he says boisterously. “I heard you commending family principles and I thought this would be the perfect occasion to introduce my wonderful wife. “This is Sylvia, my wife.” And as if summoned magically, Sylvia, a tall and busty brunette, appears at his side. “She's a wonderful singer. She's been praised by famous people, “ he says, without letting his wife put in a word edgewise. “She'll sing later tonight to entertain us,” he adds, glaring at Merlin as though Merlin has done something to hurt him. Meanwhile poor Sylvia tries to say, “But, dear, I don't think my voice is at its best tonight.”

“Nonsense,” says Valiant gruffly.

Meanwhile Arthur shakes his head at Valiant and decides that Merlin deserves some praise himself even though he isn't curvaceous and his job isn't flashy.

“Merlin, here, wants to become a teacher,”Arthur shares without any form of embellishment.

Donovan looks interested: his mimicry changes and goes from polite to genuinely eager to learn more. “Do you now? I always thought an interest in education highly commendable. What subject would you wish to teach?”

Merlin's attitude is different as well now that he can launch into a subject that isn't a lie. He talks and talks about his wish to teach English. He grows animated, fills them in on the particulars of his course and how he figures he could apply what he's learning to his future teaching. 

He's so bright and alive Arthur is faced with the fact that a life outside of the thrill of the stock market can be as fulfilling as the only one he'd envisaged as possible for himself. 

More, he finds Merlin can be less lackadaisical and more passion-driven when discussing this thing that is close to his heart. Drinking him in when he's like this is a pleasure. He could probably listen on for hours: he finds Merlin a much more interesting person than he'd thought when he'd been just a hyper, witty, boyish young man he'd met the other day. 

This version, while still exuberant and shy and bubbly, is still endearing but more focused and determined. 

Moreover Merlin's pleased Donovan as well, who engages him in conversation for almost twenty minutes, and later when Donovan goes to attend to the other guests, Merlin doesn't find himself without an interlocutor for long. 

However, he's also won for himself the natural hatred of Valiant, who glares and glares and then ditches his wife in a corner to go and confabulate with Morgause. They discuss something in hushed but violent tones and then before they're done Valiant peeks one last time at Merlin, then automatically seeks Arthur's eyes so as to probably defy him.

Arthur experiences a moment of something that is nearly akin to fear, a deeply unpleasant sensation he can't explain, while Valiant scowls. He tells himself that there's nothing Valiant can do but pull angry faces. Nevertheless after that Arthur doesn't leave Merlin's side for long.

Valiant aside, the evening is a success over all. Arthur thinks he might have got the job after all. 

Before the evening draws to a close Merlin has three new friends, though he won't be able to meet them again because of the lie. Arthur has established a few interesting business connections too. 

When the party draws to a trickle, yawning guests slowly dispersing, Arthur asks Merlin, “Tired?”

“Nah, not really. All nighters are my friends.”

“Good. I'll get you home. If you'll wait for me to get the car.”

Merlin puts a hand on his shoulder, Arthur's not sure whether it's because they're still being observed by someone and so he's playing the husband to the last, or just because he wants to halt Arthur's progress. It's nice all the same. “Transport wasn't included in the price.”

“Come, on,” says Arthur, “trains aren't running this late!”

“Buses are.”

Arthur leans closer to Merlin. Maybe his intent his expressing his own vehemence at hearing Merlin say something so stupid. Or maybe he himself is still mindful of the role he's supposed to inhabit  
for tonight. “It's nearly two. I don't want you to be robbed. Come on; you'd be a sitting duck.”

“I live in Bethnal Green not a war zone.”

“Merlin, I'm trying to be nice.”

“That'd be new.”

“Very funny. I'm not taking 'no' for an answer.”

Merlin eyes him warily. “But just because I have a lecture tomorrow.”

They walk to the car and the drive itself are actually fun. Without the strain of lying and be people they aren't, they find themselves bickering merrily as though they've long known each other. 

Merlin bats Arthur's hands off the stereo's tuner. “No, no, come on who listens to fusion blues at two o clock in the morning?”

“I happen to,” Arthur says, eyes on the road and the light night traffic.

Merlin settles for a radio station he seems to prefer. “Nah, this is more likely. Waking me up.”

“You sure you're twenty-three, Merlin?”

“Pretty much. Unless.” He makes a face imitating the figure in Munch's Scream. “Unless, oh my god, I'm adopted and everything I know about who I am is false. Oh, woe, I was swapped at birth and....”

“Shut up, Merlin.” 

“Come on; it's perfectly possible.”

“In a soap opera, perhaps.”

Merlin is about to spew some more preposterous piece of idiocy, when his face grows tighter and he announces, “That's me. You turn left and that's where I live.”

“Oh,” says Arthur, signalling his left turn and slowly cruising along the street Merlin lives in. “So that's it.”

“Yeah,” says Merlin turning in the passenger seat and leaning over. “It wasn't too unpleasant an evening,” he says. “I sort of had fun.”

“I didn't,” says Arthur but he can't quite keep a straight face.

Merlin puts his hand on the car door's handle. “I...Well, I hope you get the job.”

Arthur doesn't reply; he doesn't know how to. Then a new song starts playing and Arthur says, “I'm sure that's more to your taste.” He blasts it full on. “Stay for the duration.”

Merlin lets go of the handle and stills so he can listen.

He only leaves three songs later.

As he watches Merlin bound up the three steps leading to his building, Arthur has to come to terms with the idea that he'll never see this guy again. Unaccountably he counts this as a loss.

**** 

 

“So how did the great evening go?” asks Leon, as he mops up the sweat that has gathered on his brow from a thirty minute running session on the treadmill. 

Arthur ramps up the resistance on the rowing machine (he's been a little too self-conscious about his body since Percival) and pants, “Well, it wasn't a catastrophe.”

Leon laughs and hooks his towel around his neck. “Don't go all cryptic on me, mate. I was the one to tip you in the right direction.”

Arthur straightens his arms and bends his knees before returning to the starting position, leaning slightly forward as he does. “Donovan liked the guy I paid to play my husband,” he says in a low voice, mostly because he doesn't want to advertise the fact to the whole gym. It'd sound worse than it is.

Since there's no one around, Leon sits on the treadmill, putting both elbows on his knees. “That's good, isn't it?”

“I might get the job,” he confirms, using an underhand grip this time because his biceps are burning. The sting eases as he does. “Merlin was good in his own bumbling way. He sounded genuine and was, you know, the kind of likeable individual who can do pretty much anything, inclusive of....” Arthur's run out of breath. He'll have to develop some more resistance. Start running two miles instead of one on Sundays. “Of murdering your dog while he's reverse-parking. He's sort of... in a way.” The extra panting that comes here is more camouflage than anything. “Pleasant to be around.”

Leon bursts out laughing. It sounds like a bear with a sore tooth. “I don't believe it. You actually like the guy. As in like _like_. Mate, it was supposed to be 'pretend'.”

Arthur stops rowing, hugging his middle. He snips, “Don't be ridiculous. I was merely stating that he might have been an improbable choice but it kind of worked. I'm not seeing him again.”

“How so?” Leon tilts his head, a benevolent expression on his face.

“Because,” says Arthur, “I paid him! I paid him to play a part for a night. End of.”

Leon stands and starts stretching his hamstrings by grabbing his foot. “You don't often praise people.”

“I said he was pleasant, not that I want to do him,” Arthur smacks a hand on his thigh. “There's a marked difference.”

“Not where you're concerned.” Leon starts whistling, deliberately irritating Arthur.

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

Someone loiters their way, eyeing first the elliptical and then the treadmill.

“I'm sure you do. You said Vivian was pretty and quite frankly she was a stunner.”

Arthur gives up on the rowing for today. “What are you driving at?”

“Nothing,” says Leon, giving Arthur a hand up. “I'm merely pointing out a fact. And since you seldom like people...”

“Now you're making me sound like an ogre.”

“No,” said Leon, grinning crookedly at him. “I make you sound like my boss' son.”

That reminds Arthur of the fact he's supposed to dine with father tonight. “Oh my god, I'll be late for dinner with him.” 

So saying, Arthur strides off, heading for the lockers, Leon following him. Once there he opens his locker with the key he's had tied around his wrist and pulls his gym back out of it. As he riffles through it for a fresh change – he can't possibly meet up with father while reeking – Leon obstinately keeps ploughing on. “Why don't you contact him again? I mean we've established that you like him. A normal person would try to...”

“We've established no such thing,” Arthur says, yanking off his sweat drenched shirt and crumpling it up to diffuse his anger at Leon. “Merlin wasn't too bad, but he's.... He thrives on mental chaos, he's a little bit funny looking, he's so distracted all the time you've got to steer him away from lampposts and he's willing to impersonate non-existent people for 300 quid.”

“And you're the one who was ready to dish up in order to fool your boss into thinking you're actually married when you're not.”

That's sobering, Arthur has to concede. “Well, I'm not saying he was terrible. On the contrary he was sort of, if you're into that thing, not bad to hang around with. But that doesn't mean I want to hook up with him. Or that it'd be reasonable to or that he'd even want to. For all I know he might not be gay, he might have someone already or he's not into relationships at all..” 

And that's the truth, isn't it? For even though Arthur spent a nice evening with him, and peculiarly missed Merlin when he was gone, that doesn't mean to say that there's more to it than that, that that fleeting attraction ought to be pursued. So as not to discuss this with Leon further, Arthur dives into the showers, stripping only before stepping under the spray so as not to flash the whole gym.

Later when he's dressed and presentable, he avoids Leon anew, claiming he needs to dash off to father. 

“Father and punctuality, you know.” 

Which is not entirely incorrect, but he might have further reasons to use that as his excuse.

**** 

Driving up the lane to father's house always fills him with a feeling of trepidation. It's not that he expects to be told off as he was when he accidentally drove father's new Jaguar into the statue at the base of the portico stairs back in 2001. He's grown up now and is quite successful as a business man, but he still feels the same kind of anxiety when asked to confront his father that he did when he was far younger and had nothing to counter father's stern moods with. 

Thinking about this – his fundamentally unaltered relationship with his sire – makes him slam the car's door. The resulting metallic thud is by no means satisfactory, therefore Arthur has this weird urge to kick the hub-cap. He retrains himself and tries to school his features into bland submission when he perceives his father's butler, Geoffrey, an old man that has been employed in the Pendragon's household for the past thirty-five years, has appeared on top of the steps.

“Mr Pendragon was waiting for you, sir.”

“Thank you, Geoffrey,” says Arthur getting the implication fairly well. Arthur isn't late but father has decided that Arthur is despite evidence to the contrary. Father has likely barricaded himself in the drawing room, waiting for Arthur to turn up and reprove him for his non-existent tardiness. For all his sober manners, Uther Pendragon often acts like a petulant child. 

Arthur jogs up the stairs, crosses the hall and directs his steps towards the back of the house. He doesn't bother knocking on the door, opting to step in and announce his presence by virtue of a calm, “Good, evening, father.”

Father, feet stretched towards the blazing fireplace, a folder on his lap and reading glassed perched on top of his nose, doesn't look up. “Please, take a seat. I'll soon be done with this report.”

Arthur slips a hand in his trousers' pockets and softly walks to the fireplace. He stares at the leaping flames and keeps silent, acquainted as he is with his father's preferences. When he's working, he'd better not be interrupted.

Two minutes go by in complete and utter silence but for the crackling of the fire. Then father puts by his folder, takes off his glasses and lets them rest on top of the closed folder. “Is it a rise you want?” he asks.

Dumbfounded, Arthur asks in return, “I beg your pardon?”

“This Minerva business.” Father pats his tie and stands up. “I'm sure we can find a sum we can agree on.”

Arthur is suddenly hit by a terrible thought. “Wait,” says Arthur circumspectly. “You think I went to Donovan to try and pressure you into fattening up my salary? That it was some kind of game or show on my part?.”

Father's voice is very level when he says, “I can think of no other reason for you to go through the hoops to get a job you already have, same role, same function, and which'd pay less.” 

He moves to the bar and goes directly for the whisky decanter. He pours himself a measure and continues, “Minerva's Tech isn't anything to go proud of. You'd be looking to be an employee while at Camelot you're the heir. I don't see why any reasonable man, placed in the same circumstances as you, would want to switch.”

“That's exactly why!” roars Arthur. “It's because you assume I'd be willing to play games! I'm fed up with this. I don't want that for myself anymore.”

“Arthur. I won't allow this. Compose yourself.”

Arthur's trying but all his blood seems to have rushed to his head. “Can't you see?” he questions. How can father not see? Why must he always take whatever Arthur does at its worst. Through the distorting lenses of Uther Pendragon's eyes everything Arthur does is a challenge to order – father's of course – and the status quo. 

“I want to do well,” Arthur says both tired and angry.

“Can't you do well where you are?”

“Now you're taking this as a personal insult.”

Father downs the whisky. His voice is raspy when he asks, “And how else should I take it? You announce you want to leave the family business to pursue a non-career! Either you're taunting me or playing games. I won't have either, Arthur. You're too old for tantrums.”

Arthur puts both hands on his hips and lets out a frustrated, “This is not a tantrum, father. I have a right to chose what I want to do with my life.” There's more that wants out. He would like to tell father how he feels like he's choking; like every time he walks into his office he feels like a marionette being controlled from above, by a godlike father that is always stern and never fond. Every order Arthur gives; every choice he makes is not really his; has never been. You could say he's supporting the company line but that's the bullshit he's accepted and fed himself over the years to justify a surrender is not proud of. He can probably try and put it into words, this general malaise of his, but all that comes out instead is a rather weak, and perhaps childish. “It's my life.”

Father shrugs that off, putting the glass down with a dull thud. “You won't get that job.”

Father sounds so sure, Arthur has to ask, “Did you interfere?”

Father runs a finger over the smooth rim of his drained glass. “I don't need to.”

“You.” Arthur feels light-headed and woozy as if he'd drunk too much of the alcohol father offered and he refused. “You think I don't have what it takes!”This hits him hard; it's like being sucker punched. After all these years, after he's given Camelot and father everything he's got with a devotion he believes no other employee has ever managed to summon to be told that he hasn't got the chops is kind of devastating. All those daddy-boy rumours that he had overheard time and again are made to be true to a certain extent.

“You won't be going,” father announces, “though we can discuss a raise.” Father refills his glass soberly though his hands are trembling as he brings it up to his lips again. 

“I think I'm not hungry,” Arthur says, running a hand through his hair and looking at the door longingly. Right now there's nothing he wants so much as getting out of here. He longs for the comforts of his own flat. It might be solitary and for a moment he pictures Merlin of all people telling him that he needs more friends, but it's a haven and he wants to gain it.

Head bowed, he takes a step back toward the door leading back to the hall but father stops him. 

“Morgana and her husband are expected. You can't miss this.”

Despite the headache looming on his horizon, Arthur stays.

**** 

It's seven o'clock on an unproductive Thursday afternoon and Arthur's home, just back from the office, idly surfing the net, putting random items he doesn't need in his Amazon basket to kill the time. 

He could have attended a function father would have wanted him to turn up for, but the hassle would be just too much. He'd have to dig up his address book and start ringing up acquaintances to see who'd be available to chaperone him around.

He's sure many would be more than willing; the catering alone at these events is usually fantastic. An old business associate of father's once managed to get Gordon Ramsay to plan and prepare the menu of one of his Mardi Gras themed soirées. Arthur thinks some of his friends would find that an inducement, but he can't really ratchet up the enthusiasm to spend an evening out, especially not after his earlier weekly meeting with father. 

He's debating buying a colour coded chopping board set when the doorbell rings. Arthur contemplates ignoring it, surfing on and maybe wasting 28 pounds on the suggested item, when there's another prolonged ring as if the person on the other side of the door has kept his fingers on the doorbell button for a prolonged amount of time.

Swearing under his breath, Arthur pads over to the door and yanks it open to see Merlin sheepishly shuffling on the other side. He's got a plastic bag in his hand, again. 

“I came to give you back your tie. I thought I'd try seeing if you were in. Maybe you don't read your mail every day.”

Arthur's heart had skipped a beat upon seeing Merlin, so in order to cover that less than nonchalant reaction, Arthur rubs the back of his neck absently. “I do read my mail everyday; part and parcel of my job.”

Merlin dances on his toes. “Oh, yeah, I see. Sorry for invading your privacy then.” He tries to pass Arthur the bag. “I'll be going.”

Arthur clutches the bag's handles and says hurriedly, “Uh, Merlin? Thank you for going to the trouble.”

Merlin stops; he'd already half-turned in order to quickly decamp. 

Arthur sees that they've come to some kind of verbal impasse so he says, “Would you like a coffee, or a cup of tea? ”

“I usually drink only barley coffee,” Merlin answers. Then he bites his lower lip as though he hadn't meant to come up with that. “But I'd like some.... er normal coffee.”

“Splendid,” Arthur says. “That is obviously...” He shuts up and steps aside to make way for Merlin.

Merlin walks inside looking around for a place to deposit his bag. In the end he settles for leaving Arthur's tie on the armchair and follows Arthur into the kitchen. 

“So coffee,” says Arthur meanwhile, belligerently eyeing the coffee machine he got from Leon one Christmas, the one he still doesn't know how to work. When he needs coffee, he usually dives into the nearest Costa and places an order. If he's at work he sends his PA. 

He putters for a few moments and then decides the safest option is putting the kettle on and giving Merlin instant. So he does. When he turns around, kettle safely on the back burner, he finds that Merlin is still standing and dancing from foot to foot. 

“Take a seat,” says Arthur and Merlin grins and complies, taking a chair, turning it around and straddling it. By the time they've settled down the water's on the boil and Arthur has to rise again to get mugs, sugar and all the necessaries needed to make a good, hopefully, cup of coffee. When he's done, he pushes a white mug under Merlin's nose. Merlin smiles wanly, blows on it because little wisps of vapour are rising up from it, and goes for a sip. He grimaces.

Arthur smacks a hand upon his forehead. “I was sure I could tackle instant.”

“No, no,” says Merlin, pushing the mug away. “The truth is I don't--” he trails off and reddens all over, at least his cheeks and the tips of his ears are on fire. “I don't like coffee,” he blurts out. “It makes me a little bit queasy.”

“Stop drinking it, then!” says Arthur, a little alarmed. Then the question dawns and he almost readies himself to ask it when he stops himself. Obviously... 

He eyes Merlin attentively, his flush, his instinctive backing off, and something that Arthur can't properly name or explain flares in his chest. It hurts a little and Arthur suppresses it in the name of some kind of small talk because he can't face this now. “Well, no matter. I'm sure there's plenty more I can offer.” 

He rises to give himself time to cool down a little, opens the fridge door and nearly ducks his head inside. He starts by listing off the items collected there and most of it is ingredients for a sandwich. “...onions, and tartar sauce. I have yoghurt!” he then exclaims in a high-pitched voice.

“Yoghurt, perfect,” says Merlin while Arthur passes him a whole tub of Greek yoghurt he got at Sainsbury's the other day. Before they can pass stupid comments on the yoghurt or Merlin can say more about its texture, the phone rings, saving them both from further embarrassment.

Arthur picks up the in the kitchen and sits on the counter. “Hello, Arthur,” the voice on the other end of the line greets him.

“Mr Donovan?”

Merlin, who'd been turning a spoon idly in his yoghurt, lifts his head.

“Arthur,” Donovan says, and Arthur's stomach is doing flips because he thinks this could be it. Donovan wouldn't have called him personally if he'd merely wanted to let him down gently. He would have let his assistant do the job for him. There's a chance he's called to say Arthur has been hired. The reason behind the call is soon explained though. “You must be wondering why I phoned.”

“Well, I--”

“Uhm, I haven't settled on a candidate yet though I have narrowed down the numbers. I find myself unable to pick because you all honestly have such amazing qualities that I'd hire you all if I could. So I thought to myself maybe seeing you again would help me decide. What about Sunday brunch? I hope you and your husband will be there as that would make me feel better about stealing you from him on a day meant for family.”

“My husband?” Arthur asks, glancing alarmed at Merlin who's busy licking the spoon in a way that is frankly evocative though innocent. Arthur is sure Merlin's innocent of all suggestive behaviour for Merlin is frowning at the tub and not at all trying to meet Arthur's eyes. However he does look up once more when he hears the word 'husband' spoken.

Arthur says, “I'm not sure my husband will be available on Sunday.” He's trying to invent a hobby for his would be husband that would explain a Sunday absence, when he hears Donovan say, “I'm so sorry. Couldn't he make an exception for this?”

Arthur is floundering, cursing the day he decided lying was a bright idea, when Merlin catches wind of where the conversation is actually going. He grabs a blank post it pad Arthur had left on the table with the intent of compiling a grocery list and writes, “It's okay. I can play your husband again. Say 'yes'.”

Arthur can see the letters as they're being formed and when Merlin passes him the note he has to mouth an, 'Are you sure?' because he really doesn't want to take advantage. 

“Completely,” whispers Merlin. 

“Yes, Mr Donovan,” Arthur then says. “My husband has just returned and I think his schedule might be cleared for Sunday.”

“Perfect. Perfect. I was thinking of my Surrey Tennis Club. They have an excellent café and as a long standing member I'm allowed to bring guests. I hope you do play.”

“I do,” stammers Arthur, while Merlin's making faces at him. Arthur guesses he wants to know what this conversation is all about. 

“We could play doubles: you and your husband and me and my wife or Mr Valiant as the case may be. Does your husband play?”

Arthur has no idea as to whether Merlin can competently wield a racket or not so he grunts non-committally and then rushes on to promise, “We'll be there.”

“Grand,” answers Donovan. “I'll have my assistant mail you the details.” 

As soon as Arthur has hung up, he tells Merlin, “Of course I'll pay you for the imposition.”

At that Merlin looks at his shoes, his shoulders drooping visibly. “I hadn't meant to do that for money.”

“Look,” Arthur tries, “evidently you needed the money or you wouldn't have answered my ad. I mean to be fair about it. You'd be sacrificing your Sunday.”

“That's okay,” says Merlin. “It's not as if I'm a prancing financier with no spare time.”

“Merlin, I'm not sure that would be okay.”

“Just because I did it once,” wails Merlin, clearly affected by what he must have thought of as some kind of negative judgement on Arthur's part, “doesn't mean that I'm for sale. I did it because it was my mum's birthday and she's done so much for me and I tried to-- but you don't want to hear that.”

Arthur grabs Merlin by the shoulders and doesn't shake him just because he doesn't think he has the right to. “No, I never meant to imply anything, okay. I can only thank you for saving my arse, so how about me offering you dinner to thank you for your spontaneous delivery of my stupid self from my employment woes?”

Merlin gives him a bright smile.

Maybe everything's all right then. Then Arthur's thoughts run back to the double match and he asks, “There's no chance you can play tennis, is there?.”

Merlin shakes his head from side to side.

****

Arthur picks Merlin up from his flat on Friday evening – the date being purely coincidental as it's the first free time slot he has at his disposal – and drives him to his own Tennis club in Islington. He's had the foresight of booking a court and has brought a spare set of rackets and tennis clothes for Merlin, (though the fit won't be perfect).

When Arthur parks outside, Merlin has the time to take in the place and pronounce it, “Posh.”

“Shut up, Merlin,” Arthur replies automatically, making sure he hasn't grazed the BMW parked next to his car. “Sports can do you a whole world of good. Besides, you're on the scrawny side I don't think a bit of muscle mass can harm you. You know, skeletal development and all...”

“Brilliant, now you're harping on my body. What's next?”

They change in the lockers and Arthur forbids himself from even peeking. He shouldn't. It'd only confuse him. He's already attracted to Merlin, the last thing he needs is believing in the pretence. 

When they get on the court Arthur hands Merlin his racket and tries to teach him the correct grips by showing how he's doing it himself. 

“Place your palm on the upper bevel, like this,” he says. Merlin tries to imitate him but with little success. “No, not like that, Merlin. You need a Continental Grip here; the racket's face has to be tilted upwards.”

Merlin puffs and grumbles. “Does it need to be textbook perfect? Because I thought you'd just need to hit the ball once or twice.”

Arthur is a bit appalled at hearing that. “Er, no,” he says, putting down his own racket and adjusting the grip of Merlin's; to do so he wraps his hand around Merlin's and rearranges his hold. Unfortunately this involves Arthur's touching most of Merlin's hand. For a moment it's as if they're holding hands, not the racket. Merlin is looking down at their entwined fingers and Arthur is to all intents and purposes breathing on his neck. 

“Can you keep your fingers in place as I showed you?” asks Arthur, voice hollow and a little dry. He should have brought a bottle of mineral water; sports take it out on you. 

“Yeah, it's. Yeah.”

Arthur doesn't let go of Merlin. He looks into his eyes. He tells himself it because he wants to reassure himself that Merlin has got it.

“Okay, I'm letting go,” Arthur says.

“You are.”

“I am.” Although he's not doing it yet.

They share another look and then Arthur shuffles back and says. “You're on your own.” To get over the minuscule amount of awkwardness that has piled up, Arthur goes into lecture mode. “So, one of the first things you need to learn is how to serve.”

“How to serve,” Merlin says again, glancing at the racket, the net in front of him and lastly at Arthur. He doesn't sound too convinced.

“To serve you need to get into position,” Arthur continues, still adopting a suitably commanding tone which makes Merlin giggle. Arthur glowers for a moment but he hasn't got it in him to be less than nice to a Merlin, who's dressed in shorts and dancing from foot to foot in the most unsportsmanlike fashion that has ever been seen.

“Merlin...”

“You know this is neither natural nor easy. I can't possibly get it right the first time sound. Nothing's easy the first time around. I defy you to tackle a class full of 15-year olds.”

“God forbid,” says Arthur. “I'm not the crazy one around here.”

“Well, you have this commanding officer tone straight out of a world war two film.”

Wanting to push Merlin's buttons a little more, Arthur hams it up so he really sounds like one of the baddies from he Bridge on the River Quay when he says, “Point your foot towards the net post and parallel to the baseline. Hold your ball in your fingers.”

“This is still tennis, right?” questions Merlin, cocking an eyebrow at him.

Ignoring him, Arthur's says,“Elbow up.” Arthur shows him the move. “Racket down. Toss with the ball just in front of the space between your legs.”

“Which manual did you read?”

“Do pay attention, Merlin.”

“It's not as if I'm not trying!”

“Racket goes back; ball goes up,” says Arthur by rote. “Shift your weight gradually onto your back foot and...” He demonstrates. “Swing your arm back and strike.” Arthur has a perfect serve to show Merlin. Even though he doesn't play Tennis often, preferring football to it, he's never forgotten all those lessons he'd had to take when he was an adolescent and father wanted him to excel at everything.

“Now you try.”

One can't say that Merlin doesn't attempt his best but he makes three mistakes one after the other and botches the movement completely, so the ball hits the net.

It could have been worse, but it could also have been very much better. Morgana had hit the ball right on her first try her first time. But then Morgana, whatever she does, always manages to land on her feet, so to speak.

“I suppose not?” enquires Merlin.

“Well, you're not Sampras.”

Then Arthur places himself behind Merlin, puts a leg between his and corrects his stance. 

“Let's try again,” says Arthur in Merlin's ear.

Merlin's Adam's apple bobs up and down. “Sure,” he says, shoulders loosening, body melting into Arthur's. “Let's do this.”

****  
On the Sunday Arthur picks Merlin up from his flat and thus gets to meet his flatmate who accompanies Merlin down to Arthur's car door. Since there's no reason for him to escort Merlin right out of the house, Arthur assumes the move must have been dictated by some kind of curiosity as to who Arthur is or wants. Not particularly bothered by this, Arthur leans over the passenger seat to push the door open for Merlin but is met by Will's unsympathetic eyes instead. Given the odd angle, they look huge and uncompromising. “So you're the posh git.”

“I'm Arthur,” Arthur corrects him.

“The posh git.”

“Will,” Merlin tells his flatmate off. “Come on, let's be grown-ups here.”

“You were the one to call him posh git first!”

Arthur raises both his eyebrows at that. 

“Yeah, well, you're the best friend ever. Thanks for telling him.”

“You know I am,” says Will as though he's just been showered in glowing praise. “Don't catch the posh while you're doing this brunch thing.”

“I think there's no danger,” says Merlin, settling into the passenger seat and fastening his seatbelt.

Not wanting Will to influence Merlin against him more than he could by sharing a small space twenty-four/seven, Arthur drives off in a screech of tires before Will can properly bid Merlin good-by.

“What was that?”

“We're late.”

“I don't think so. I timed my shower.”

“I don't think that's a scientific means of calculation.”

“It is when I do it.”

Arthur has a glare ready for the traffic lights so as not to voice his impatience. He feels put upon.

He still isn't in the best of humours when he makes the Tennis Club. Arthur has done some research on the place just to know on what kind of turf he'd be working and he'd found that the West Surrey Tennis Club has long enjoyed a peculiar reputation; it's generally considered, at least by those who have applied and been rejected, to be more than a little hoity toity and somewhat exclusive.

Apparently, the guests are treated according to some kind of social grading. It's naturally never officially mentioned, but Arthur knows about the secret hierarchies of places just like this. His colleague Owain had warned him about it and Arthur has no doubts as to the correctness of Owain's gut feelings when he steps inside the hall and wends his way towards the bar and café.

This tennis club is surely state-of-art from the surface of the courts down to the new lounges; everything proclaims the institution to have been recently refurbished. The modernising must have cost a lot. To get to the bar Arthur and Merlin have passed an outdoor pools, a long corridor where signals announce the presence of a sauna and whirlpool, and he hasn't missed the flyers advertising the services of the high-end on-call masseuse.

“God, Will would start a new revolution if he saw this place.”

Arthur feels as if he's being judged by default. As if he belongs to this same breed of people just because he was born the son of a finance magnate and wants to be hired by another. “I suppose this is pretentious if seen from the outside,” he says. “My football team is much more, well, down to earth, just me and my mates, you'll see when you meet them.” 

And just like that Arthur finds he's likely invited Merlin to come and get to know his friends. As if they themselves are friends and Merlin isn't doing him a favour and as if he hadn't pretended to be the love of Arthur's life just so Arthur'd get a job. 

“That is... I'm sure you're busy with uni and you're not that vocal about sports, but should you ever...” Arthur finds his footing again. “Want to learn something so essential to any man's life, me and my mates will gladly get you back on track.”

While Arthur has been extolling his footie team, they've reached the double doors leading through the bar and into the WSTC'S café. Rows of orderly square wicker tables meet their eyes. Each is placed in front of the windows that give onto the lawns, so the café frequenters can also observe the games being played by those who've hired the courts. Waiters dressed in black trousers and white dinner jackets that would probably remind cinema fans of Casablanca flit busily here and there.

Arthur has just spied a group made up by Donovan, a woman Arthur has never clapped eyes on he decides must be Donovan's wife and Valiant and Sandra when Merlin hooks an arm around him, pulls him close, gently grabs the side of his face and publicly slips him some tongue. 

It's wet and real and too soon over, but Arthur is gasping like a stranded fish at the end of it as though he'd never been kissed before. Which is patently absurd but for a moment, a mere moment, he stops thinking and only longs for more of that. 

“What was that for?” he stupidly asks though he knows the answer in advance.

“That rival of yours was making faces so I decided to be convincing,” Merlin murmurs against his lips. Arthur is aware of how this must look to outsiders. He's almost folding Merlin closer, whispering things against his mouth. People must think they're at the cooing or honey moon stage of their relationship and somehow Arthur finds it extremely easy to act as though he's thoroughly besotted, smitten, crazy about the man he has in his arms. He supposes he's palsying the role as well as Merlin is, complete with mesmerised doe eyes and a marked reluctance to increase the space between their bodies. “I guess you had a brilliant idea.”

“I'm a smart person, Pendragon.”

“Are you?”

“Definitely. So smart in fact as to suggest we make our way to your Mr Donovan's table. Before he thinks we're rude or that we should get a room.”

“I don't think we're giving off that vibe yet.”

“Then I'm crap at this.”

“At What?” asks Arthur, heart a-flutter. “Acting?”

Merlin swallows, stares at the tip of Arthur's nose, at his lips, then back at his nose, and then rasps out a strained, “Acting, yes, what else?”

“Yes, obviously.”

They make their way to Donovan' s table and both Donovan and Valiant spring to their feet, though Valiant is slower about it despite his younger age. 

“Arthur, Merlin,” Donovan greets them. “It's a pleasure to see you could make it. The both of you that is. For a moment I feared I'd disrupted your Sunday.”

He looks at his wife as he shakes Arthur's hand. It's the kind of look that may be shared by people who know each other intimately, the kind of secret, coded communication that sometimes life partners of long years share. There's love and humour in it and Arthur finds himself wondering how he'd act if he had someone like that for himself. If he'd appear as comp licitly besotted as Donovan. 

As Arthur is hit by this peculiar, never entertained before thought, Donovan continues, “I perfectly remember how it was when you're newly married. You look upon someone steeling your partner away for a day like a bit of a nightmare. And you're young. We can figure out what you'd planned to do with your free day.”

Arthur feels his face go up in flames, the allusion throws him so. Merlin, however, reacts to this in a thought provocative way (in the sense that Arthur's trying to suss out what's behind his actions.) He steps backwards, hugs Arthur from behind, locking his arms over Arthur's stomach and plants his pointy chin on Arthur's shoulder. “Arthur and I are both pleased to be here,” he says, kissing Arthur under the jaw. “Besides, Arthur's never too tired after a day at work to, well, no need for me to spell it out.”

Donovan's wife, Christina, says, “You two are enchanting. The love and chemistry really shine through.”

Valiant tells his wife, “I think a little support is needed or they'll think you're less devoted than Merlin.”

“Or perhaps they'll think you're less charming than Arthur.” 

To deflect the sudden tension in the air, Arthur and Merlin hurry to sit down and flag the waiter to place their order. This little strategy is crowned with success for Donovan's wife cottons on and helps them achieve their peace-keeping goal. 

“So what do you do during the week-ends?”

Merlin answers for him before Arthur can convey an articulate answer. For a brief spell Arthur fears that Merlin will invent more lies and lying, despite what he's done in the past two weeks, is not something Arthur can appreciate. It makes him feel like an eel. But Merlin manages to satisfy Christina Donovan's curiosity without going for any fabrication. 

“Arthur plays football and quite likes it. And tennis occasionally. He even tried to teach me but he failed.”

“That's a pity,” Donovan dives into the conversation. “I'd have like to play against you two.”

“I'm afraid I don't have great hand-eye coordination.”

“Decidedly not,” snorts Arthur benignly, recollecting his attempt at coaching Merlin into serving.

Donovan laughs at that, his wife nods her head and Valiant tilts his and starts studying Merlin in a way that gives Arthur the creeps. It lasts through their order, and the first twenty minutes of conversation after it. 

Immediately afterwards something changes and Valiant's cold glare dissolves and gives way to a smile, still directed mostly at Merlin, that Arthur deems as fully unsettling especially since it looks like a parody of benevolence. But since he can't prove it, he can't warn Merlin against it and only listens as Valiant tries to convey some form of interest in Merlin's life.

“So which university do you go to?” Valiant asks.

“I'm doing a Secondary English with Media Course at the London Metropolitan.”

“I see,” says Valiant. “Isn't that near the Aldgate High Street. Don't you get a lot of traffic in the morning?”

“Yes, don't you two live in Chelsea?” Donovan pipes in. 

And of course Donovan's got Arthur's CV and would know where he lives and he'd logically conclude that that was Merlin address as well.

“The commute is fairly easy,” says Merlin, under the spotlight.

Valiant's eyebrows knit together. “Why, no car, Merlin? Arthur is being stingy with you?”

“No, I no,” Merlin tries to wade his way out of this. He looks in a panicked way at Arthur and then smiles and says, “I'm green. I don't believe in driving to places as a principle. Not when you can take the tube.”

“Where do you take it? The train?”

It's Arthur who has to go to the rescue, for Merlin likely wouldn't know which station's nearer to Arthur's flat if not roughly so. “Gloucester Road,” he says. But he hasn't counted the stops or the changes it would take to get to get to Aldgate so he adds, “West Brompton as well. Depends.” Fact is, he's never needed to plan out that particular commute because Merlin doesn't really live with him.

Valiant narrows his eyes at them both but then his features relax again into an overly generous smile. The conversation thankfully drifts to books read and films seen, but Valiant's reaction still worries Arthur a little; the more so when he tries to be polite to Merlin.

During the early afternoon Arthur plays a match against Donovan and Valiant while he himself is partnered with Donovan's wife. Christina and he win by a set, but the victory doesn't bring any joy to Arthur.

Usually he would be elated; he must admit to a competitive streak after all. But today he feels as though he doesn't deserve it. Though he deserves the win, he's sure he doesn't deserve Christina's tentative friendship and her well wishes on his and Merlin's behalf.

Before they can go change and Arthur can be released, Donovan approaches him and says, “You and Merlin are an extraordinary young people. I'd like to invite you two to my country estate in Dorset. Next week?”

And like that Arthur knows Donovan hasn't chosen yet and that he wants to test Arthur and Valiant on his own ground. 

“I don't know what to say,” Arthur says, because he can't involve Merlin further. Can't ask him to spend a full week-end with him when the man must have some kind of life of his own. “I--”

“Arthur, it's very important,” Donovan presses.

Arthur says, “I'll be there.”

He says it even though he can't vouch for Merlin. He's tired of this game. If they ask him why Merlin's not there, he'll tell them that he's been lying and ask Donovan to keep considering him despite everything.

 

****

 

He's watching TV with Leon, eating home-made popcorn from a bowl, while trying to drown his sorrows in an episode of Band of Brothers. The choice is certainly apt if he thinks that comparatively speaking his life could have been much worse if he'd been born in the wrong decade, not the 1980s, say, but the 1920s. The mere idea of what his life could have been like had he been less temporally lucky puts his problems into perspective although he realises he's fucked up his career prospects all the same.

Thinking about the grand scheme of things won't change that.

“You're wallowing.”

“I've decided. I'm telling Donovan the truth.”

“Why?” asks Leon. The munching stops. “I mean, you've come this far, you may as well go for broke.”

“Merlin won't come again,” Arthur says over the sounds of a TV battle. “And without him there I don't think I can keep up the pretence.”

Leon makes a noise as if he's considering this, then he leans his head back and stares at the picture hanging above the TV set as if its shapes and whorls can reveal the answers to life's eternal questions. It's actually just some kind of abstract painting, a series of lines, squares and dots vaguely, very much so, imitating the style of Mondrian Arthur got for an obscene sum two years ago. Vivian had pressed him to buy it saying it was refined. Arthur'd liked the colours and has kept it hanging there ever since. (Mostly because he can't be bothered to put something more to his taste in its place.)

“Did Merlin say he wouldn't?”

“He doesn't know about this latest invitation,” answers Arthur. “And even if he did... I'm taking him out on Monday night to make up for his wasting time for me last Sunday. I'm not blindsiding or roping him into doing the lying thing again.”

Leon raises both eyebrows at him. It's a very strange look on him. “What,” he says somewhat theatrically. “You're going out on a date with him?” 

Arthur has never suspected Leon's voice could get that high. “It's not a date! He didn't want to be paid for accompanying me twice and so I just invited him to dine out. It seemed to be the least I could do!”

“And since he's so nice he can't help you a third time?”

“He doesn't even know!” Arthur protests. “I take it that Merlin is a bit of a save the world kind of person so if he knew I was in trouble again...”

“He'd do it again?”

“Probably...” says Arthur. “Look, I don't know whether he's fed up with me or of what. He'd help sure... but he's damnably confusing. He's sending these mixed signals.”

Leon pauses the DVD. “What do you mean mixed signals?”

“He plays the role of husband with gusto.”

Leon groans and goes, “Arthur, Arthur, Arthur, you've slept with him, haven't you?”

Arthur somersaults on the sofa. “What! No! How could you get such an idea into your head? Nothing like that happened.” Briefly Arthur thinks back on Merlin's lips of his, on that hint of tongue in the kiss, searing hot and exciting; he thinks of Merlin's fingers cradling his face and almost wishes Leon was right and he'd actually managed to indulge with Merlin. 

He attributes this sense of longing for Merlin's touch, easy smiles and quirky personality to a healthy dose of libido and the fact that he's been more or less alone for longer than is probably healthy. 

But he's not willing to confess such a thing to Leon, for Leon is well-meaning and happy in his marriage so he'd be likely to try and play matchmaker for him, throwing parties just so Arthur can find someone. 

Arthur doesn't appreciate that kind of interfering in his own business. This longing he's experiencing is mostly just a Merlin thing, not a feeling lonely thing,

“Then is he flirting with you?”

That's a shrewd question. It isn't as though Arthur hasn't considered that point off and on ever since Sunday. He has. There had been moments earlier this week when Arthur had been fairly sure that maybe Merlin had been trying to send that particular signal. 

Yet Arthur is now convinced that he's read the whole thing wrong. Merlin may come across as shy but he isn't really. He's a little clumsy and excitable and a bit of a bumbler so one might think him shy, but he isn't and Arthur is ready to bet that if Merlin had been trying to seduce him he'd have said something more to the point. Well, more to the point than a kiss meant for show and arms around him....

“No, he isn't. He's just enthusiastic about helping. He's that kind of person.”

Finally he and Leon share a silent moment. It's probably one of those meaningful silences where Leon attempts to make a point by playing at being wise and Arthur keeps silent hoping this will go away and he won't have to open up. As it is, Arthur just enjoys the fact that the interrogation is over, (the more so as he isn't in possession of all the answers himself).

Out of the blue and in a very strange tone Leon asks, “Do you still have that pistachio ice-cream I loved the other day?”

“What? After the popcorn? That's very bad dietary habits you have there.”

“Yeah, I know. Now don't be fussy and indulge me.”

“And you want it now?” Arthur glances at his watch. “It's an hour to dinner time.”

“Yes, mum. I want to spoil my appetite.” Arthur reads that as the obvious challenge it is and stumps to the kitchen to get Leon his ice-cream. He's just retrieved the right tub from the freezer when Leon calls out to say he wants a plastic spoon instead of an ordinary one. So Arthur has to rummage some more to get Leon, now to be renamed His Fussy Highness, the desired item. 

Arthur is very nearly out of the kitchen when Leon calls out again, “Can't you pour coffee over it? I like my pistachio ice-cream that way.”

Rolling his eyes at the ceiling, Arthur busies himself making a cup of coffee he can then pour over the ice-cream. It takes him a couple of minutes but by then he has a steaming cup he liberally upends over the pistachio confection. 

He's about to return to the living room when Leon calls out a third time and says, “Can you put the ice-cream in a bowl?”

Arthur barks a little less than polite, “Can't you move your arse and do it yourself?” but he isn't sure Leon has heard him in the other room. Which might be just as well since Leon is a friend and they've been through thick and thin and maybe his friend could have been less picky about his ice-cream, but Arthur guesses he can put up with it. 

Spooning half-thawed ice-cream into a bowl has him all set. So he retreats back to the living-room where he finds Leon putting something back in the pocket of the jacket Arthur left hanging over the back of a chair. 

A tad surprised, Arthur quirks an enquiring eyebrow at Leon, who goes all red about the face and flustered. “I...was looking for your mobile. I meant to phone Forridel to tell her I'll be late.”

“You could have called your wife from my home phone, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah. Is that my ice-cream?”

Arthur looks down at the bowl he's been holding. “No, this is an offering to the gods in return for the cessation of rhetorical questions.”

“You're a horrible friend!”

“You made me a slave over pistachio. I think I'm not.”

“Give over.”

**** 

As it turns out, Donovan's Dorset manor looks very much like the castle from the little Lord Fauntleroy film. Father can say whatever he wants about the fact that Donovan's empire is only a decade old, but it would seem that in that decade Donovan has achieved quite a lot. 

The manicured lawn, the huge park one needs to drive through and the fairy tale like quality of the main house attest to that. 

After he's coasted the drive, Arthur hands the keys of his car to the chauffeur and is led into the house, whose big and airy atrium welcome him, by a butler still sporting formal attire. 

He's just marched to the centre of the atrium when he looks up and sees Donovan and Christina descend the platform staircase leading up to the first and second floors. 

They meet Arthur in the middle. Donovan shakes his hand and his wife hugs him, which makes Arthur feel even worse for what he's about to say. 

“Arthur, it's such a pleasure having you here. But where's Merlin?” asks the hostess, looking behind Arthur's shoulder as if to make sure that Arthur hasn't forgotten the man she believes to be his husband somewhere behind – like a ditchable commodity.

Arthur mentally braces himself to explain, tell the truth. His hands are clammy and his throat's a bit dry. He shouldn't have let father goad him into lying; he shouldn't have let it get to this. But he's responsible for himself and his own actions, so owning up to his mistakes is the only possible option. 

He may do some soul-searching later, now he just needs to breathe and say it. 

Christina seems to have instinctively guessed there's something Arthur is struggling to say. She pats his hand and encourages him by looking in a way Arthur would guess to be motherly, if he knew about such things, of course, which he doesn't.

He says, “Merlin isn't here because Merlin actually is--”

“Late!” he hears Merlin's voice proclaim and for a moment he's sure he must have gone crazy. He whips around, jaw hanging open and watches as Merlin, shouldering a rucksack of dubious cleanliness, makes his bouncy way to Mr Donovan. “I thought I'd be stuck studying in London, but a prof announced he'd be off on a conference via the fac website's and I--”

“Don't have a car? How did you get here?” 

“Borrowed Will's. Wouldn't get into gear properly. I had to punch the gear lever to get it to actually work properly.”

Arthur pales a little, thinking that a car like that is in no way fit for the motorway. Why couldn't Merlin's friend get his car checked? “You're mental,” says Arthur.

“I wanted to be here,” Merlin tells him meaningfully and Arthur promises to himself that he'll ask once they're alone. 

“Let me show you to your room,” says Christina Donovan. “Mr Valiant is already upstairs with his wife and will be coming down shortly.”

Their room is sumptuous and large and quite obviously only has a king bed. While Merlin puts his rucksack, unopened, in the cupboard, and Christina Donovan lists the facilities as though this were a hotel, Arthur is left subtly staring at the bed.

He throws a cursory glance at the settee but it's clearly too narrow and too short to make sleeping on it possible. They'll have to share. He's going to have Merlin in his – well their – bed tonight. Oh, crap, talk about unforeseen dilemmas. 

He's sure he has a deer in headlights look and is wholly distracted for Christina Donovan has to repeat a sentence twice before it actually sinks in.

“If you ring the bell you'll be answered by the butler or one of the on call maids.”

Merlin quips, “This is like stepping into an episode of Upstairs Downstairs.”

“We wanted the old house to be exactly as it had been in the old days.”

After that Mrs Donovan leaves them to themselves, a sly look in her eyes. 

“She thinks I'm about to jump you,” says Merlin. The tone is conversational; the blush is not.

“Merlin,” says Arthur, sitting on the blanket box at the foot of the bed. “Why are you here?”

Merlin clasps his hands behind his back and looks very school-boyish when he says, “Your friend Leon rang me the other day. He said Donovan had invited you down here and that you didn''t have the courage to ask this of me but that you'd be pretty screwed if I didn't turn up to play your husband. So I came.”

“Leon is so very, very dead.”

“Why aren't you angry with me?”

“Because this is all my fault. And Leon went behind my back. And you're an idiot of yet untold epic proportions but I guess you meant well.” 

“It's just two days,” says Merlin encouragingly. “Valiant is a twat. You'll be chosen over him and then it's over. You can draw breath.”

Arthur had been so sure he'd come clean today and it's a little anticlimactic to think that he won't. But the reason why he doesn't want to confess today as planned is because he wants to play at being married for two whole days. He wants it so badly he can compromise his honour for that long. “You think I'll get it?”

“Yes, you're brilliant. You will get the job. Leon's told me how hard you've worked to get this far so fast. I'm sure you deserve it.”

“Valiant is competent.”

“But a twat.”

“I thought you thought I was.”

“Tricky sentence that one. Sure you don't want to revise it?”

“The future English teacher in you rearing his head?”

“I wouldn't want to be too normative about it!”

In a moment of seriousness Arthur asks, “Merlin, how do we manage this?” He tosses his head back because he can't bear to meet Merlin's gaze as he waits for a reply.

“As we did the other two times? I think we're very nearly friends by now, so we'll work it out.”

Arthur doesn't ask him whether Merlin feels the same kind of panicky thrill at the prospect of sharing a bed. He dreads the answer.

Perhaps it's better that way; he guesses they'd better hurry since lunch is going to be served soon and that's not a subject to be broached when they have only a few minutes to discuss it.

**** 

 

Lunch comes with a surprise. The surprise doesn't concern the menu, which is traditional and conservative as far as the main dishes go (tough they are presented in a way that would make a restaurant proud), but in the fact that Valiant has brought someone in tow beside his wife. 

This person, a certain Cenred King, has been invited, according to Valiant, as a present to Merlin. 

“So you can learn to play doubles with Arthur. See, Cenred is a tennis instructor and no one has ever failed with him teaching.”

Cenred seems to study Merlin critically, in a way that makes Arthur want to tell him to stop ogling his friend. Then he says, “You look thin but fit. I can work with a body like yours. I most definitely can.”

Arthur can't be the only one to perceive a strong dose of innuendo in Cenred's words.

“Merlin isn't the athletic type,” Arthur says to test the waters. (And perhaps he secretly wishes Cenred would stop with the repeated flamboyant once overs by staking a claim.)

“Aren't you, really, Merlin? I think you have the physique for it. I could certainly help you.”

Merlin doesn't flush but there's something about how he starts pouring himself water, folding and refolding the napkin spread across his lap, that tells Arthur Merlin is nervous and perhaps, horror of horrors, pleased at the attention.

“I'm not extremely coordinated. I'm okay when there are few obstacles involved. I can run fast. But team sports or coordination sports? I'm afraid not.”

“Well, running after a ball is not much different. I'll teach you the basics first and then we'll see,” says Cenred. “I'm told there's a court on the estate; we might use it in the afternoon. “

“I don't have the gear.”

Cenred smiles predatorily. “You can borrow mine.”

Donovan and his wife are sharing a mute conversation made up of looks, shrugging of shoulders and some less emphatic gestures. They both seem perplexed though not distressed at Cenred's antics. Sandra, Valiant silent wife, is crumbling breadsticks on the tablecloth while staring vacantly ahead. 

Arthur's munching on chickpeas and mentally cursing Cenred.

If you ask him, something about this lunch and Cenred's presence at this meal doesn't fit one bit, but there's nothing Arthur can say without appearing paranoid. 

So Cenred is hitting on Merlin; Merlin seems to like the attention but to also be generally oblivious to its prurient nature. 

For his part Valiant seems to be facilitating Cenred's overtures by way of some out of character, over-loud praising of his supposed friend. That or Arthur has finally gone crazy and is seeing Banquo's ghost.

Seeing Cenred making a pass at Merlin is extremely irritating; going through the second course and dessert while that is going on without batting an eyelash is such difficult work that Arthur is surprised at his own knee-jerk reaction. He has to tune out of the conversation, which is by no means stimulating by the way, to take a moment and ask himself why that would be. 

Overall, Cenred seems fake, and that might be the reason why Arthur dislikes him and doesn't trust him. Maybe Arthur's just looking out for Merlin. But the problem is that Arthur has little proof to support his theory apart from an instinct prompting him to wish he could kick Cenred in the shins. An instinct that is making him increasingly short-tempered.

And when Cenred winks at Merlin, all flirty and complicit, Arthur gets it. Gets why the king bed had made him feel so strange earlier today, so out of tune with himself and the situation and why he's prepared to lie his way through at least two more days just so he can pretend Merlin's his.

Because that's it, isn't it? He wants it to be true. He's not merely attracted to Merlin; he wants Merlin. He wants to share that bed with him and hopefully have sex, he wants to be able to turn and whisper something he knows will have Merlin in stitches in his ear, and he wants to continue to experience that feeling of companionship, friendship, camaraderie he's already got going with Merlin. He wants the friendship and the sex and all Merlin can give because, someone help him, he has gone and...

He has gone and fallen for the man he'd hired to play his husband.

He's done for, epically.

**** 

Despite the revelation, the rest of the afternoon passes as though nothing's happened. Merlin doesn't know about the feelings Arthur's started harbouring for him, the Donovans think it's all right if Arthur moons over Merlin since they're supposedly married and Valiant is shifty but that's no news. 

Soon after lunch is over, Merlin packs himself off to have some little Tennis tuition with Cenred and Arthur has leisure to shut himself up to mull over things.

Hours of mulling over things doesn't help much but he does devise a plan. The plan's called Waiting. 

After having spent the greater part of an hour – something he'll never tell Leon for instance – envisioning different ways of telling Merlin that he's very much _that_ with Merlin and coming up feeling that he's not that man, aka one prone to rhapsodising, he gives up on making a fool of himself and decides that procrastination is the only possible choice.

This because

a) He doesn't do declarations much. (Vivian asked him out; he'd issued brief date invitations to people he was interested in but he'd never openly stated his desires or made much of his feelings.

 

b) The timing's all wrong because he's just developed feelings for a man he paid to play a part. Merlin might well go and think Arthur considers him as available under retribution. That's not the message he wants to send. Given the way they've met, Arthur thinks as he splashes water on his face, he'd better Go about it slowly, convince Merlin that he's serious and honourable – well, not wholly, he would like to get laid some time as well – and do things the old-fashioned, time honoured way.

Thinking of getting laid has just caused him to splash more water on his face and neck, when Merlin runs into the bathroom, flushed and sweaty from his Tennis hour with Cenred.

His opener couldn't be worse as regards Arthur's ego. “Cenred is a better teacher than you.” 

It's said in a quipping tone but Arthur reads the statement as an ominous sign.

“Well, the problem's the pupil,” Arthur finds himself saying. He hadn't meant to insult Merlin. Hell he wants Merlin to like him so much he feels quite stupid about it. So he can't fathom why his tongue got away with him.

“If the teacher would bother teaching instead of showing off.”

“I was teaching you. Cenred is trying to impress you.”

“He's succeeding,” says Merlin enthusiastically. “I'm officially impressed by his level of training and his stamina... Oh and he's very nice to me.”

Arthur wants to pout and tell Merlin Cenred's nice because he wants to get laid. But he doesn't think putting that sort of idea in Merlin's head would be for the best. As far as Arthur knows Merlin's single and what if he decided to give Cenred a spin? 

Arthur balls his fists at his sides and tries not to picture Merlin writhing on sheets wrapped up around that oily, would-be tennis aficionado. He'll show Merlin Matchpoint at some point. Tennis instructors – more so when they're vaguely handsome – cannot be trusted.

“Why don't you shower so we can go and have dinner?”

Merlin nods and pulls off his shirt in front of him. Arthur has this sudden urge to go and skim his hands across his torso but naturally he keeps his hands to himself. 

“I need a shirt though. I didn't think to grab one and this place,” he gestures at the marble bathroom, walk-in shower and the overall pomposity of the place and says, “gets fancier and fancier.”

Arthur steps closer to Merlin, puts his hand on his shoulder, feeling naked skin underneath, and in a dry as dust voice says, “I'll lend you my clothes.” 

He wants Merlin to give Cenred back his tennis gear. If anything he wants Merlin to wear his clothes and not Cenred's stuff. 

Confused, he walks out of the bathroom before Merlin can pull down his shorts. Arthur's no voyeur. He just needs a psychoanalysis session or two so he can cope with this new jealousy issue.

Dinner is as uneventful as they come. Donovan speaks about the history of the house; his wife expands upon the long years she'd spent renovating it. 

Sandra is silent and morose; she barely speaks and when she does it's only to Christina Donovan. If Arthur were married to Valiant he'd develop a strong antipathy towards the male sex too. The food is good but rather too rich and by the entrées Arthur's too full. 

There's a glimmer of hope when Donovan makes them understand he'll choose his new employee the day after but that's as far as it gets.

Dinner's over by nine o'clock and they get to have a lot of time on their hands afterwards. 

On their way out of the dining room, Arthur spies Valiant and his wife having a row that seems pretty vicious. He overhears her say, “You can't do that. You always play with people. People aren't pawns.”

“Oh you and your morals,” Valiant hisses. “Morals won't buy you the nice clothes you like to wear or a record deal.”

“I can get a record deal on my own.”

“In your dreams!” Valiant scoffs and jogs up the stairs leaving his wife alone on the landing. Her shoulders are shaking and she's probably crying. 

Arthur tells Merlin, “Let's make a detour through the garden. I don't think she should know when listened to all that.”

Merlin smiles at him and says, “You are nice. Sometimes I forget that.”

Arthur grins in return, leading Merlin past the French windows and into the garden. 

The evening air is crisp and balmy. Arthur, who's a city boy through and through, finds the fresh, smog-less air quite strange to inhale. 

They take a couple of turns, following the beaten path and then wandering into the thicket. 

“Do you really want this kind of life?” Merlin asks after a few minutes silence. “I know you're already disgustingly rich and all that. But do you want to play at being mini-Donovan? It's just that I think you deserve to be happy and..” He tails off. “I'm making a fool of myself, aren't I?”

“No,” says Arthur, a little choked-up. Nobody's ever cared so much about his well-being prior to this. Father is all about business first and other considerations later; Morgana and he have never got along easily and she has this idea that she and Arthur were born to be pitted one against the other in a never-ending competition, and Leon is Arthur's best friend but he's got his life to think about. “The truth is that I just want out of my current rut.”

“But you'd be going for the same job, kind of. That's what Leon made me understand.”

Arthur shoves his hands in his jacket's pockets and kicks at these gravelly bits that litter the path with the point of his shoe. “Leon says I'm doing this to escape from father's clutches and he may be right. The atmosphere at work is stifling. Father has planned out my life for me but thinks I couldn't.. I'm sure he doesn't believe I can make it on my own.”

Merlin stops in his tracks then. He grabs Arthur by the wrist, closes his fingers round it, then drops it as if scalded. He does however determinedly plough on. “I promise I'll do whatever it takes so you can get it. I'll be on my best behaviour. I want to help you.”

“Okay.”

“I'm serious.”

“I believe you.”

A little while later they wind their way back to the house and Merlin tells Arthur to go ahead to go their room while he stays downstairs for a few more minutes. 

“It's okay if you don't want to share the bed,” Arthur says pre-emptively. “I can drag the duvet down, and sleep on the floor while you keep the blankets.”

Merlin's surprise is easily read. “No, I'm not afraid to sleep with you,” he says. Then he goes a bit slack jawed and adds, “No euphemism, of course.”

“Of course.”

After this most embarrassing exchange, Arthur repairs to their room and changes into a tee and PJ bottoms. The heating's on so strong it feels likes it's high summer though it's not. 

Sock-less, he plants himself in the middle of the room and, hands on hips, stands contemplating the bed as though it were Rubik's cube. After a while he decides Merlin will have to settle it; in the meanwhile he might as well lie down so as not to be mistaken for either a cretin, a prude, someone who dislikes Merlin's physical proximity or way worse someone who wants it so much he'd climb into Merlin's lap and there rut till he screams.

To cool down, he starts reading a biography, because biographies are never page turners and they're bound to help him quiet down. He's almost halfway through Mozart's childhood when Merlin rushes in, yanking off his jumper and toeing off his shoes. In ten seconds flat he's also jeans-less and kneeling on the bed. “Valiant's lurking near our room. I think he suspects something.”

“He what?” squeaks Arthur, casting his book aside.

“I think he might be suspicious or something. Anyway he's hanging around outside in the hallway. I was thinking.” Here Merlin does a bit of lip gnawing. “I was thinking we should give him something of an audio show.”

Arthur mustn't be too bright tonight for he repeats the word, “An audio show?”

Merlin's explanation is somewhat strange. He nods, making a lot of the movement and then climbs into Arthur's lap, bracing his arms against the wooden headboard. “Make the bed squeak, a few moans here and there so that he thinks we're shagging.”

Arthur's hands settle at Merlin's waist out of an innate instinct. This way Arthur can feel the warmth of Merlin's body, the firm pressure of him. This way when he looks up he is in a prime position to observe Merlin's long throat.   
And Merlin has the worst or best timing in the world since he starts rocking forward in an attempt to produce the appropriate sound. He grins as though this is fun and pushes against the headboard so that it thumps against the wall.

“Come on, make some noise,” says Merlin, as he makes small forwards movement to get the bed to creak.

Arthur tenses, swallows and says in a rasp, “I don't make noise in bed.”

Merlin giggles, then fake moans loudly for Valiant's benefit. It's over the top but Arthur's left wondering if Merlin really sounds like that when he's having sex. 

“I had you pegged as a screamer,” says Merlin, managing to sound sound innocent even though he's just spewed something vaguely naughty. At least given the context. Then Merlin, having decided he wants to give a convincing performance starts producing these little ah sounds that do really strike Arthur as realistic. 

To complete the routine, he bashes the headboard against the wall and, in order to produce more mattress springs' noises, he pushes down with his knees, ending up thrusting his hips into Arthur's groin.

Merlin's heavy, warm; a live, nearly wriggling mass in his arms and he's swaying and rocking into him. It's no surprise if – considering all that has gone before and Merlin's having made himself at home in Arthur's lap – if Arthur's blood rushes south making him go hard, nought to sixty, very, very swiftly. 

As he shifts, Merlin notices and Arthur can do nothing but grab Merlin's elbow, close his eyes – because he can't, can't, can't look at Merlin now – and say, “I'm sorry. So sorry. It's the position. It's...” He doesn't add 'You're practically lap-dancing me' or 'Two layers less and this'd be sex', but the thought does cross his mind.

Merlin freezes, locks his knees on either side of Arthur's waist and covers his own mouth with his hand. He says, “God, I'm molesting you! And you don't want to. I'm so sorry.”

Now, Arthur thinks, would be perfect moment to tell Merlin that actually Merlin isn't molesting him, just titillating him and that Arthur wouldn't mind proceeding. He wouldn't mind it if Merlin shed his t-shirt for example or if his boxers followed. He wouldn't mind it if Merlin bent down and let Arthur kiss him. 

Instead he reaches out, sweeps the hair away from Merlin's forehead and tries to stop him from panicking, bolting. “Hey, no. I know you're trying to help.”

“I'm mortified.”

“Just, kindly...” He waves a hand about and looks sideways at the other pillow.

“Oh, oh,” says Merlin, climbing off him. 

After this Arthur turns off the light and they stay silent for the longest time till Merlin braves it and says in a small, controlled voice. “I didn't mean to embarrass you. I just want you happy. And.... for you to be happy Valiant had to be fooled.”

“Are you always... this earnest,” Arthur wonders out loud. “Crusading on behalf of people?”

Arthur feels the mattress under him dip. Merlin must have flipped onto his side. “Sometimes. But you're a special case. I want to think we're friends. And you're...” There's a pause and it's an almost painful one because it's as if Merlin's baring his thoughts to him. Merlin's aware of this; Arthur's aware (and a coward for not doing the same) as well.

“You really should be happy. You're a great guy.” Then Merlin snorts. “Well, if you go looking for it and when you're less of a... Are you familiar with the word clotpole? It's an Elisabethan...”

“Sleep, Merlin,” Arthur says, once again able to breathe. Arthur vows he'll come clean with Merlin as soon as he's got things sorted out. He'll court him in the right and proper way once this thing with Donovan is over.

Before they both fall asleep, Merlin mumbles into the pillow. “I do like you,” he says.

Arthur smiles at the ceiling.

***** 

He's helping Mrs Donovan program her TV – memorising channels because a power outage has fried the settings – when Valiant's wife appears. Arthur is immediately struck by how distraught she looks. She has no make-up on and her flawless dress-style is being hampered by a grandma-like shawl she's thrown over her shoulders. She's hunching in on herself as though she's cold, but the temperature in the room is more than warm and Arthur has grounds to suspect Mrs Valiant's not trembling for any reason remotely connected to the weather.

“I--” she begins, however unable to finish.

“Yes?” Mrs Donovan says, drawing her out.

“I need to speak to Mr Pendragon.”

This doesn't bode well.

“Alone.”

Even worse.

Christina eyes them but retreats.

Arthur, still clutching the remote, feels a little strange about this. It's clear Sandra has got something to say to him but he has to wonder whether her nerves are genuine or a ploy designed to help her husband.

Instinctively, Arthur likes her, but he's also certain Valiant wouldn't be above exploiting his wife to trap him into doing something wrong. He's still gentle when he asks, “Is something wrong? You look upset.”

“That's because I am.” She inhales sharply, bracing herself probably. “There's something wrong. Well my main mistake was choosing to marry him, but that doesn't concern you. What does is this: my husband said he wasn't buying Merlin as the partner of a known corporate jet-setter like you. So he asked Merlin questions. And he says you were too vague about the tube one.”

Comprehension dawns.

“So, Sandra continues, “he phoned Morgause who suggested he check at the uni. He couldn't have Merlin's files but he could ask around. So he did.”

Arthur draws the only conclusion this preamble allows for. “He knows we're not civil partners.”

“Yes,” says Mrs Valiant. She looks sorry for him. “But there's more. He's set out to prove that you're not an item and since he can't hire a PI to do so, or he'd look as though he was desperate for clues, he's decided to prove it by other means.”

Arthur grows very worried. “What means? Please, tell me. For Merlin's sake at least.”

“I think what my husband's doing goes beyond the pale. He's hired an escort, Mr King, that would be, to seduce Merlin. My husband is supposed to be lurking behind a bush, snapping photos of them when they're in an intimate pos--”

“Where are they?” asks Arthur, blood thumping at his temples. “Where? Is King supposed to...”

“The plan is to draw Merlin near the conservatory.” Mrs aliant's's about to say something more, but Arthur dashes off and runs out of the house. 

Merlin doesn't deserve to be exploited by a bastard to prove a point. So Arthur thunders down the main stairs and sprints across the grounds, aiming for the conservatory. He's run at least for a good five minutes when he sights it. 

The building is easily spotted because it's made of sliding glasses down to the sloping top and the whole vertical façade. A folding door opens into the balcony, which is decorated with ferns. 

In front of the balcony are Merlin and Cenred. Cenred is trying to force Merlin into a kiss, but Arthur is too far to drop in on them. 

He's powerless to do anything but spot Valiant – and his telelenses – crouching behind a bush.

He feels like the worst kind of person on the planet but he's somewhat relieved when he sees Merlin, slender build and all, push Cenred back and punch him on the jaw. It's only then that he reaches them. He yells at Cenred, “Don't you there touch him again or swear to God I'll kill you.”

Cenred massages the side of his face, his lip his split. He cleans up the blood and says, “This is not worth the pay.” He slinks away before Arthur can imitate Merlin.

Valiant, the coward that he is, uses the opportunity to run back towards the house, photo apparatus slung across his shoulders.

“Are you all right?”

“My hand hurts like hell,” says Merlin in a proud tone. He's cradling his hand and Arthur worries he might have broken something.

He takes Merlin's hand in his and says, “God, I worried there for a moment.”

“What was all that about?”

“Valiant paid Cenred to get shots of your seduction to prove we're not married. A stupid plan.”

“Oh my god,” says Merlin, and then he winces because he's moved his fingers within Arthur's grip. “I'm so sorry. Does his mean he'll go and tell Donovan?”

“I don't care,” Arthur says. “I don't care about that. I shouldn't have cared about that. You matter.”

“Arthur.”

“Come inside. I'll put some ice on this.”

Merlin protests again but Arthur has decided it's time to stop hurting people and himself in the name of this stubborn job pursuit. He coaxes Merlin back into the mansion and into their room, getting ice from the kitchens on the way. 

Gently, he sits Merlin down on their bed, takes his hand and starts applying a makeshift ice-compress. Merlin's nose's all wrinkled up as though he doesn't like the sensation and Arthur's heart breaks in two. “I'm an idiot,” he says.

“What no! It wasn't your fault.” He smiles. “And I think I defended myself well.”

“Quite,” says Arthur, lips twitching despite himself. “But I made a mistake and dragged you into it. And...” The time has come to be honest. He can't go on hiding this, what he feels. At this point, with his heart beating double time in his chest, it's the only upright choice he's got left. He wants to be brave even if it loses him Merlin and the job. “I persisted with the lie because I liked it.”

“What?” asks Merlin, still not serious. “Do you mean to tell me you're a compulsive liar?”

“No,” says Arthur, he's dropped the ice-pack and is now running his thumb across Merlin's reddened knuckles. “I liked the being married to you spiel.” He's a little choked up and his delivery is less than perfect when he admits, “I wanted it to be real. It felt good. There was... this light in your eyes when you... played the part, kissed me, I don't even know. It made me feel...” 'Loved' he tries to say but Merlin starts speaking. Arthur can scarcely hear him over his own heartbeat.

“... that you like me?”

Arthur tunes back in again though he feels as though he's high, on the moon. No coming back. But he makes an effort, turns a little and cups Merlin neck. “Yes. Yes. I do.”

“Yesterday was no accident?”

“No... it was a little like torture but I wanted y--”

The interruption is caused by Merlin reaching out to him, touching his face. 

Then Arthur leans closer and their foreheads are touching. He merely has to turn his head a little for their lips to meet as well. It's a press at first and then one of them sighs and Arthur starts nibbling on Merlin's top lip, then taking them both into his mouth, sliding his tongue in to find Merlin's. 

Their tongues find each other, gliding over and around, twirling around one another, drawing back for an in.-take of breath, darting in and out like the prelude to sex that this is. 

The kiss makes Arthur's heart pound like the wings of a humming-bird.

A belaboured breath escapes him and Merlin's hands find his shoulders, massage his arms. 

Arthur's free hand, the one not cradling Merlin's face, gets busy, slipping under Merlin's sweater to touch skin. He caresses his flank, skimming fingers along Merlin's ribs, chest and stomach, caressing bare skin. 

Merlin shivers in his arms; Arthur rests his hand on Merlin's belly and pulls a little away.

“I--”

“Hush,” Merlin says, rising a little, a knee still on the bed, his other leg on the floor. He pulls his jumper over his hand and then pushes Arthur's hand lower, covering it with his. 

Arthur looks into Merlin's eyes then, and they stay like that for a few breathless moments. But then Merlin's fingers twitch, he draws in a breath and,, Merlin being on the thin side, Arthur can slip his fingers below the waist band of his jeans. He can touch the tip of Merlin's cock; a little wet, soft fragile. 

Merlin's rasped moan shakes Arthur to the core. He shifts forward on the bed, on leg bracketing, Merlin's and brings his other hand to bear so he can unbutton Merlin's jeans. When he has the last one he pushes Merlin's jeans and underwear down and cups Merlin's cock. 

Merlin throws his head back at that, bracing himself by putting a hand on Arthur's shoulder. His neck tendons go taught; simultaneously tiny little sounds start coming from his throat. Throughout, Arthur strokes him. 

“I want to come,” Merlin pants. “I want you to make me. I want to make you come right back.”

Arthur has no words; there's just a surge of both lust and emotion. He bends his head and kisses the cock-head that pokes from between his fingers, licking at the pre-come gathered there. He elicits a thrust and a pained sound, a tortured little 'ah'. 

“Finish undressing.”

Quite eagerly Merlin kicks off his shoes and peels off his socks till he stands completely naked, tall, gangly and a little beautiful before Arthur. 

Needing to see this through, Arthur gets to his feet grabs him by the neck, kisses him, deep and dirty, then ruffles his hair and stands back in order to get undressed as well. He does it quickly, shedding his clothing as though he can't bear to have it on any longer. 

He sits back up against the headboard and pulls Merlin towards him by his hip. He gets Merlin to kneel over him, his knees bracketing Arthur's legs. As he doe, he keeps petting Merlin, running his hand up and down his side. Then he surges up, kisses the spot where Merlin's ribcage meets softer tissue and mouths there, open-mouthed and soft. He trails his mouth downwards, letting his teeth scrape the skin he finds on his way.

In response, Merlin slips his fingertips into Arthur's hair and then he twists them. It's not deliberate, Arthur guesses, he just needs something to grab at because Arthur's leaning back, dragging Merlin's body closer to his, opening his mouth to suck on Merlin's cock while he holds the base with his free hand. 

At first it's just his lips wrapped around the head, lips sealed around Merlin's foreskin.

A moan comes deep from Merlin's throat and that's all Arthur needs to get so hard he needs to count down from twenty in order not to come and spoil this. But he doesn't stop, sliding his tongue around, running the tip round and round in tiny circles till he catches a little drop of pre-come. 

Light-headed, he draws back to breathe then he grabs Merlin's arse, kneading and squeezing as he goes, till Merlin understands what he wants and feeds him his cock, letting Arthur suck as much as he can down, till gag-reflex successfully warden off, Merlin's riding his face, pelvic thrusts becoming wild and uncontrollable, back arching, head thrown back. 

Merlin's hips snap forward fast, savage and out of rhythm and then he comes and Arthur can taste it fully on his tongue till he has to cough and Merlin vaults off him, still spurting drops of come.

Now they're both panting and Arthur has had no relief.

“Do me. Come on, Arthur.”

Arthur remembers having condoms in his wallet; he always does so as to be safe. 

“All right,” he says. Not his brightest moment. Still lust addled, he dashes for his jacket's pocket and gets the small foil packet. Then he rushes to the bathroom where he gets some lotion. It's the closest lube substitute he can think of unless he goes the Last Tango in Paris route and loots all the butter from the kitchen.

When he returns it's to see Merlin spread out on the bed like a feast for debauched pagan gods, knees bent, feet pressed against the headboard. 

Trembling, Arthur approaches the bed, sits on it and asks Merlin. “Still want to? No second thoughts?”

Merlin laughs warmly. “No! What? No. I want you to to fuck me silly. Fuck me slow.”

Arthur doesn't need to be told twice. 

On his haunches between Merlin's spread legs ,Arthur bends forward over him and starts to prepare Merlin with all the care his now clumsy fingers permit. He takes his time, both to make it comfortable and so as to be able to watch as Merlin bears down on him, face turning from side to side as Arthur spreads him open, fingers him slowly, rubbing and grazing at his prostrate.

Condom rolled on, sliding into Merlin is almost easy, though he goes by stages, stopping at the first tiny pop he feels as the head of his cock pushes inside. 

“Slow,” says Merlin. “Make me feel it.”

Arthur breathes, grunts and says, “Don't... don't or I'm coming.” Then he glides in, starts rocking forward, building an in and out rhythm as Merlin frantically grabs at him, clamping down on his shoulder, bucks against him. Lost in a sea of pleasure spreading out from his groin to his belly and getting him warm all over, Arthur moans and grunts with each thrust, getting a tremendous thrill out of it. 

Then they're grinding into each other till Arthur's overwhelmed by pleasure. His vision gets blurry, almost white, and on a sigh that racks his body, he comes, feeling warm all over and then cold when he finally slumps down.

He's still inside Merlin when he says, “I don't want to let you go. Even if the fake husband thing is over.”

Merlin's fingers tangle through his hair. “You're not getting rid of me so easily.”

Now soft, Arthur slips out and settles on his side next to Merlin. He absently starts running his hand up Merlin's torso. He sighs. “I think I have something to do.”

“I know.”

**** 

“...and that's the whole truth. Merlin's not in any way to blame. He was just helping me.” 

“You understand I can't hire you now?” says Donovan as though it actually pains him.

Arthur can only feel the relief of having come clean. “I do.” He's ashamed, but together with the shame he can only think that this farce, his own stubbornness to get a job away from father's powers of manipulation, has given him Merlin. However it still stings a little.

Donovan must have read him right for he says, “This is all my fault.”

“What. How? I lied. It was beneath me, and you, and I still did it. I'm wholly responsible for what I did. I might have had reasons but it was unforgivable.”

Donovan shakes his head. “I should have looked at your qualifications and decided on the basis of that. I have no business intruding into the lives of my prospective employees.” He looks out the window at the garden where his wife's sitting. “The truth is I'm an old man and I was looking for someone with the same outlook on life to take the reins of the firm. I wanted another me. A man with my same values. A couple who could be like me and Christina.”

Arthur feels moved to say, “There's nothing wrong with that.”

“There is though,” says Donovan in the tone of a man of blames himself for being foolish. “It's highly unprofessional. I thought I was being so progressive thinking of businesses as large families that I forgot I was discriminating against single men and women.”

The reverse of the medal, Donvonas loneliness at the helm, is sad to contemplate. “I won't make the same mistake again. Or hire Mr Valiant. He's proved untrustworthy and base. Though making this a competition was my fault as well.”

“Sir..”

Donovan raises a placating hand. “You unburdened your conscience. Let me do the same.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Are you going back to Camelot and your father?” Donovan asks. “You should try.”

“Merlin suggested I try opening up a business of my own. And one day I will though...” This is a new idea, inspired by witnessing Donovan's voicing of his regrets. “I'll try to patch things up with father as well.”

“For a fake husband Merlin seems to take what you do to heart.”

Arthur smiles then, unveiled and unguarded because right in this moment he can't help it. “I think the fiction turned into a truth.”

The End.


End file.
